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FRONT  LINES 


BY  THE   SAME  AUTHOR 

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E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 
NEW   YORK 


FRONT  LINES 


BY  BOYD  CABLE 

AUTHOR  OF 
'between  the  lines,"  "action  FBONT,"  "GBAPE8  OF  WBATH' 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681   FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPTBIQHT,  1918, 

BY  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 
AU  Rights  Reierved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


THESE  LINES,  WRITTEN  AT  AND  TELLING 
ABOUT  THE  FRONT,  ARE  DEDICATED— WITH 
THE  FERVENT  WISH  THAT  THOSE  THERE 
MAY  SOON  SEE  THE  LAST  OF  IT— TO  THE 
FRONT,  BY 

THE  AUTHOR 


FOREWORD 

These  tales  have  been  written  over  a  period 
running  from  the  later  stages  of  the  Sonime 
to  the  present  time.  For  the  book  I  have  two 
ambitions— the  first,  that  to  my  Service  read- 
ers it  may  bring  a  few  hours  of  interest  and 
entertainment,  may  prove  some  sort  of  a  pic- 
ture and  a  record  of  what  they  themselves 
have  been  through;  the  second,  that  it  may 
strike  and  impress  and  stir  those  people  at 
home  who  even  now  clearly  require  awaken- 
ing to  all  that  war  means. 

I  know  that  a  great  many  war  workers 
have  been,  and  still  are,  bearing  cheerfully 
and  willingly  the  long  strain  of  war  work, 
and  I  very  gladly  and  thankfully  offer  my 
testimony  to  what  I  have  seen  of  this  good 
spirit.  But  it  would  be  idle  to  deny,  since  the 
proofs  have  been  too  plain,  that  many  war 
workers  are  not  doing  their  best  and  utmost, 

are  not  playing  the  game  as  they  might  do 
vii 


viii  FOREWORD 

and  ought  to  do,  and  it  is  to  these  in  particu- 
lar I  hope  this  book  may  speak. 

Surely  by  now  every  worker  might  appre- 
ciate the  fact  that  whatever  good  cause  they 
may  have  for  ''war  weariness"  they  are  at 
least  infinitely  better  off  than  any  man  in  the 
firing  line;  surely  they  can  understand  how 
bitter  men  here  feel  when  they  hear  and  read 
of  all  these  manifestations  of  labour  ''dis- 
content" and  "unrest."  We  know  well  how 
dependent  we  are  on  the  efforts  of  the  work- 
ers at  home,  and  there  are  times  when  we 
are  forced  to  the  belief  that  some  workers  also 
know  it  and  trade  on  it  for  their  own  benefit, 
are  either  woefully  ignorant  still  of  what  the 
failure  of  their  fullest  effort  means  to  us,  or, 
worse,  are  indifferent  to  the  sufferings  and 
endurings  of  their  men  on  active  service,  are 
unpatriotic,  narrow,  selfish  enough  to  put  the 
screw  on  the  nation  for  their  own  advantage. 

I  beg  each  war  worker  to  remember  that 
every  slackening  of  their  efforts,  every  re- 
duction of  output,  every  day  wasted,  every 
stoppage  of  work,  inevitably  encourages  the 
enemy,  prolongs  the  war,  keeps  men  chained 


FOREWORD  ix 

to  the  misery  of  the  trenches,  piles  up  the 
casualties,  continues  the  loss  of  life.  A 
strike,  or  the  threat  of  a  strike,  may  win  for 
the  workers  their  12y2  per  cent,  increase  of 
pay,  the  ''recognition*'  of  some  of  their  offi- 
cials, their  improved  comfort ;  but  every  such 
''victory"  is  only  gained  at  the  expense  of 
the  men  in  the  trenches,  is  paid  for  in  flesh 
and  blood  in  the  firing  line. 

When  men  here  are  suffering  as  they  must 
suffer,  are  enduring  as  they  do  endure  with 
good  heart  and  courage,  it  comes  as  a  pro- 
found shock  and  a  cruel  discouragement  to 
them  to  read  in  the  papers,  or  go  home  and 
discover,  that  any  people  there  are  ap- 
parently indifferent  to  their  fate,  are  ready 
to  sacrifice  them  ruthlessly  for  any  trivial 
personal  benefit,  refuse  to  share  the  pinch 
of  war,  must  have  compensating  advantages 
to  level  up  "the  increased  cost  of  living," 
will  even  bring  a  vital  war  industry  to  a 
standstill — it  has  been  done — as  a  "protest" 
against  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  butter  or 
margarine  and  tea.  It  may  be  that  one  grows 
one-sided  in  ideas   after  more  than  three 


X  FOREWORD 

years'  soldiering,  but  can  you  blame  us  if 
we  feel  contempt  for  pitiful  grumblers  and 
complainers  who  have  a  good  roof  overhead, 
a  warm  room  and  fire,  a  dry  bed,  and  no  real 
lack  of  food,  if  we  feel  anger  against  men 
who  have  all  these  things  and  yet  go  on 
strike,  knowing  that  we  must  pay  the  pen- 
alty? And  let  me  flatly  deny  the  claim  which 
some  strikers  and  agitators  still  make  that 
in  these  upheavals  and  checks  on  war  indus- 
try they  are  ' '  fighting  for  the  rights  of  their 
mates  in  the  trenches. '*  Their  "mates  in  the 
trenches"  will  be  ready  and  able  to,  and  cer- 
tainly will,  fight  for  their  own  rights  when 
the  war  is  won  and  they  can  do  so  without 
endangering  or  delaying  the  winning. 

Meantime  can  any  man  be  fool  enough 
honestly  to  believe  that  ''mates  in  the 
trenches ' '  want  anything  more  urgently  than 
to  win  the  war  and  get  out  of  it?  If  there 
are  any  such  fools  let  them  try  to  imagine 
the  feelings  of  the  ''mate"  cowering  and 
shivering  over  a  scanty  handful  of  wet  wood 
or  black-smoky  dust  "coal  ration"  who  hears 
that  coal  miners  at  home  threaten  a  strike; 


FOREWORD  id 

of  the  man  crouched  in  a  battered  trench 
that  is  being  blasted  to  bits  by  German  steel 
shells  from  steel  guns,  who  learns  that  our 
steel-makers  are  *'out"  and  if  their  demands 
were  not  satisfied  would  continue  to  strike 
indefinitely  and  hold  up  the  making  of  the 
guns  and  shells  which  alone  can  protect  us ;  of 
the  man  who  is  being  bombed  from  the  air 
night  after  night  in  his  billets  and  reads  that 
50,000  aircraft  workers  are  on  strike,  and 
that  the  Front  will  be  poorer  as  a  result  by 
hundreds  of  the  aircraft  which  might  bomb 
the  enemy  'dromes  out  of  action  and  stop 
their  raiding;  the  dismay  of  the  man  about 
to  go  on  a  long  deferred  and  eagerly  waited 
leave  when  he  is  told  that  all  leaves  may  have 
to  be  stopped  because  a  threatened  strike  of 
* 'foot-plate"  workers  may  strand  him  at  his 
debarkation  port.  Will  it  soothe  or  satisfy  a 
man  in  any  of  these  cases  to  be  told  the 
strikes  are  really  fights  for  his  rights,  espe- 
cially when  you  remember  he  knows  that  as 
a  result  of  the  strike  he  may  be  too  dead  to 
have  any  rights  to  be  fought  for? 

The  best  I  can  wish  for  this  book  is  that 


xii  FOREWORD 

it  may  do  even  one  little  bit  to  make  plain 
with  what  cheerfulness — cheerfulness  and 
even  at  times  almost  incredible  humour — the 
Front  is  sticking  it  out,  with  what  complete 
confidence  in  final  victory  this  year's  fight  is 
being  begun ;  and  may  make  yet  more  plain 
the  need  for  every  man  and  woman  at  home 
to  give  their  last  ounce  of  energy  to  help  win 
the  war  speedily  and  conclusively. 

Boyd  Cable. 

On  the  Western  Feont, 
January  1th,  1918. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.   Trench-made  Art 1 

II.   The  Suicide  Club 21 

III.  In  the  Wood 44 

IV.  The  Diving  Tank 62 

V.   In  the  Mist 74 

VI.   Seeing  Red 99 

VII.   An  Air  Barrage o  117 

VIII.    Nightmare 137 

IX.   The  Gilded  Staff       .     .     .     ."~\  156 

X.   A  Raid 172 

XI.   A  Roaring  Trade 183 

XII.    Home 205 

XIII.  Bring  up  the  Guns 227 

XIV.  Our  Battery's  Prisoner       .     .     .  246 
XV.   Our  Turn 262 

XVI.   According  to  Plan 277 

XVII.   Down  in  Hunland 297 

XVIII.   The  Final  Objective       ....  318 

XIX.   Artillery  Preparation  ....  327 

XX.   Stretcher-bearers 336 

XXI.   The  Conquerors 345 


FRONT    LINES 

I 

TRENCH-MADE  ART 

By  the  very  nature  of  their  job  the  R.A.M.C. 
men  in  the  Field  Ambulances  have  at  inter- 
vals a  good  deal  of  spare  time  on  their  hands. 
The  personnel  has  to  be  kept  at  a  strength 
which  will  allow  of  the  smooth  and  rapid 
handling  of  the  pouring  stream  of  casualties 
which  floods  back  from  the  firing  line  when 
a  big  action  is  on ;  and  when  a  period  of  in- 
activity comes  in  front  the  stream  drops  to  a 
trickle  that  doesn't  give  the  field  ambulances 
** enough  work  to  keep  themselves  warm." 

It  was  in  one  of  these  slack  periods  that 
Corporal  Richard,  of  the  Oughth  London 
Field  Ambulance,  resumed  the  pleasurable 
occupation  of  his  civilian  days,  to  his  own 
great  satisfaction  and  the  enormous  interest 


2  FRONT  LINES 

of  his  comrades.  Richard  in  pre-war  days 
had  been  a  sculptor,  and  the  chance  discov- 
ery near  the  ambulance  camp  of  a  stream 
where  a  very  fair  substitute  for  modelling 
clay  could  be  had  led  him  to  experiments  and 
a  series  of  portrait  modellings.  He  had  no 
lack  of  models.  Every  other  man  in  his  squad 
was  most  willing  to  be  ''took,"  and  would  sit 
with  most  praiseworthy  patience  for  as  long 
as  required,  and  for  a  time  Richard  revelled 
in  the  luxury  of  unlimited  (and  free-of-cost) 
models  and  in  turning  out  portraits  and  cari- 
catures in  clay.  He  worked  with  such  speed, 
apparent  ease,  and  complete  success  that  be- 
fore long  he  had  half  the  men  endeavouring 
to  imitate  his  artistic  activities. 

Then  Richard  attempted  more  serious 
work,  and  in  the  course  of  time  turned  out  a 
little  figure  study  over  which  the  more  edu- 
cated and  artistic  of  his  friends  waxed  most 
enthusiastic,  and  which  he  himself,  consider- 
ing it  carefully  and  critically,  admitted  to  be 
"not  bad."  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  true  that 
many  members  of  the  company  regarded  the 
masterpiece  with  apathy,  and  in  some  cases 


TRENCH-MADE  ART  8 

almost  with  disapproval.  ''Seems  a  pity/* 
said  one  critic,  ''tliat  the  corp'ril  should  'ave 
wasted  all  this  time  over  the  one  job.  Spent 
every  minute  of  'is  spare  time,  'e  'as,  fiddlin' 
an'  touchin'  up  at  it;  could  'ave  done  a  dozen 
o'  them  picturs  o'  us  chaps  in  the  time.  An', 
now  it  is  done,  'tain't  quarter  sich  a  good 
joke  as  that  one  o'  the  sergeant-major  wi'  the 
bottle  nose.    Fair  scream,  that  was.'* 

But  in  due  time  the  corporal  went  home 
on  leave,  and  took  his  study  along  with  him. 
Later  it  gained  a  place  in  an  exhibition  of 
"Trench-made  Art"  in  London,  many  news- 
paper paragraphs,  and  finally  a  photo  in  a 
picture  paper  and  a  note  stating  who  the 
work  was  by  and  the  conditions  under  which 
it  was  performed. 

A  good  score  of  the  picture  papers  arrived 
at  the  Oughth  London  from  friends  at  home 
to  men  in  the  unit.  That  did  it.  There  waS 
an  immediate  boom  in  Art  in  the  Oughth  Lon- 
don, and  sculpture  became  the  popular  spare- 
time  hobby  of  the  unit.  This  was  all,  as  I 
have  said,  at  a  period  when  spare  time  was 
plentiful.    The  unit  was  billeted  in  a  village 


4  FRONT  LINES 

well  behind  the  firing-line  in  a  peacefully 
sylvan  locality.  It  was  early  summer,  so  that 
the  light  lasted  long  in  the  evenings,  and  gave 
plenty  of  opportunity  to  the  sculptors  to  pur- 
sue their  Art  after  the  day's  duties  were 
done. 

As  a  consequence  the  output  of  sculpture 
would  have  done  credit — in  quantity  if  not, 
perhaps,  in  quality — to  a  popular  atelier  in 
full  swing.  The  more  enterprising  attempted 
to  follow  the  corporal's  path  in  portrait  and 
caricature,  and  it  must  be  confessed  were  a 
good  deal  more  successful  in  the  latter 
branch.  The  portraits  usually  required  an 
explanatory  inscription,  and  although  the 
caricatures  required  the  same  in  most  cases, 
they  only  had  to  be  ugly  enough,  to  show  a 
long  enough  nose,  or  a  big  enough  mouth, 
and  to  be  labelled  with  the  name  of  some  fair 
butt  or  sufficiently  unpopular  noncom.  to  se- 
cure a  most  satisfying  and  flattering  meed 
of  praise. 

Less  ambitious  spirits  contented  themselves 
with  simpler  and  more  easily  recognisable 
subjects.    The  cross  or  crucifix  which,  as  a 


TRENCH-MADE  ART  5 

rule,  marks  the  cross  or  forked  roads  in  this 
part  of  France  had  from  the  first  caught  the 
attention  and  interest  of  the  Londoners,  and 
now,  in  the  new  flush  of  Art,  provided  imme- 
diate inspiration.  Almost  every  man  in  the 
new  school  of  sculpture  graduated  through  a 
course  of  plain  crosses  to  more  fancy  ones, 
and  higher  up  the  scale  to  crucifixes. 

But  in  point  of  popularity  even  the  cross 
sank  to  second  place  when  Private  Jimmy 
Copple,  with  an  originality  that  amounted 
almost  to  genius,  turned  out  a  miniature 
model  coffin.  The  coffin,  as  a  work  of  art,  had 
points  that  made  it  an  unrivalled  favourite. 
It  was  so  obviously  and  unmistakably  a  coffin 
that  it  required  no  single  word  of  explanation 
or  description ;  it  was  simple  enough  in  form 
to  be  within  the  scope  of  the  veriest  beginner ; 
it  lent  itself  to  embellishment  and  the  finer 
shades  of  reproduction  in  nails  and  tassels 
and  name-plate ;  and  permitted,  without  evi- 
dence of  undue  ** swank"  on  the  part  of  the 
artist,  of  his  signature  being  appended  in  the 
natural  and  fitting  place  on  the  name-plate. 

There  was  a  boom  in  model  coffins  of  all 


6  FRONT  LINES 

sizes,  and  a  constantly  flickering  or  raging 
discussion  on  details  of  tassels,  cords,  han- 
dles, and  other  funereal  ornaments.  Private 
Copple  again  displayed  his  originality  of 
thought  by  blacking  a  specially  fine  specimen 
of  his  handiwork  with  boot  polish,  with  nails 
and  name-plate  (duly  inscribed  with  his  own 
name  and  regimental  number)  picked  out  in 
the  white  clay.  He  was  so  pleased  with  this 
that  he  posted  it  home,  and,  on  receiving 
warm  words  of  praise  from  his  mother  in 
Mile  End,  and  the  information  that  the  coffin 
was  installed  for  ever  as  a  household  orna- 
ment and  an  object  of  interest  and  admira- 
tion to  all  neighbours,  a  steady  export  trade 
in  clay  coffins  was  established  from  the 
Oughth  London  to  friends  and  relatives  at 
home. 

The  Art  School  was  still  flourishing  when 
the  unit  was  moved  up  from  its  peaceful  and 
prolonged  rest  to  take  a  turn  up  behind  the 
firing-line.  The  removal  from  their  clay  sup- 
ply might  have  closed  down  the  artistic  ac- 
tivities, but,  fortunately,  the  Oughth  had 
hardly  settled  in  to  their  new  quarters  when 


TRENCH-MADE  ART  7 

it  was  found  that  the  whole  ground  was  one 
vast  bed  of  chalk,  chalk  which  was  easily  ob- 
tainable in  any  shaped  and  sized  lumps  and 
which  proved  most  delightfully  easy  to 
manipulate  with  a  jack  or  pen-knife.  The 
new  modelling  material,  in  fact,  gave  a  fillip 
of  novelty  to  the  art,  and  the  coffins  and 
crosses  proved,  when  completed,  to  have  a 
most  desirable  quality  of  solidity  and  of  last- 
ing and  retaining  their  shape  and  form  far 
better  than  the  similar  objects  in  clay. 

Better  still,  the  chalk  could  be  carried  about 
on  the  person  as  no  clay  could,  and  worked 
at  anywhere  in  odd  moments.  Bulging  side- 
pockets  became  a  marked  feature  of  inspec- 
tion parades,  until  one  day  when  the  CO. 
went  round,  and  noticing  a  craggy  projection 
under  the  pocket  of  Private  Copple,  de- 
manded to  know  what  the  private  was  load- 
ing himself  with,  and  told  him  abruptly  to 
show  the  contents  of  his  pocket.  On  Copple 
producing  with  difficulty  a  lump  of  partially 
carved  chalk,  the  CO.  stared  at  it  and  then 
at  the  sheepish  face  of  the  private  in  blank 


8  FRONT  LINES 

amazement.  ''What's  thisT*  he  demanded. 
''What  is  it?" 

"It — it's  a  elephant,  sir,"  said  Copple. 

"An  elephant,"  said  the  CO.  dazedly. 
"An  elephant?" 

"Yessir — leastways,  it  will  be  a  elephant 
when  it's  finished,"  said  Copple  bashfully. 

"Elephant — will   be "    spluttered   the 

CO.,  turning  to  the  officer  who  accompanied 
him.    "Is  the  man  mad?" 

"I  think,  sir,"  said  the  junior,  "he  is  try- 
ing to  carve  an  elephant  out  of  a  lump  of 
chalk." 

"That's  it,  sir,"  said  Copple,  and  with  a 
dignified  touch  of  resentment  at  the  "try- 
ing, "  ' '  I  am  carving  out  a  elephant. ' ' 

The  CO.  turned  over  the  block  of  chalk 
with  four  rudimentary  legs  beginning  to 
sprout  from  it,  and  then  handed  it  back. 
"Take  it  away,"  he  said.  "Fall  out,  and 
take  the  thing  away.  And  when  you  come 
on  parade  next  time  leave — ah — your  ele- 
phants in  your  billet. ' ' 

Copple  fell  out,  and  the  inspection  pro- 
ceeded.   But  now  the  eye  of  the  CO.  went 


TRENCH-MADE  ART  9 

straight  to  each  man's  pocket,  and  further 
lumps  of  chalk  of  various  sizes  were  pro- 
duced one  by  one.  '  *  Another  elephant  1 ' '  said 
the  CO.  to  the  first  one.  ''No,  sir,"  said  the 
sculptor.  ''It's  a  cofifin."  "A  co — coffin," 
said  the  CO.  faintly,  and,  turning  to  the  offi- 
cer, "A  coffin  is  what  he  said,  eh?"  The 
officer,  who  knew  a  good  deal  of  the  existing 
craze,  had  difficulty  in  keeping  a  straight 
face.  "Yes,  sir,"  he  said  chokily,  "a  coffin." 
The  CO.  looked  hard  at  the  coffin  and  at  its 
creator,  and  handed  it  back.  "And  you,"  he 
said  to  the  next  man,  tapping  with  his  cane  a 
nobbly  pocket.  "Mine's  a  coffin,  too,  sir," 
and  out  came  another  coffin. 

The  CO.  stepped  back  a  pace,  and  let  his 
eye  rove  down  the  line.  The  next  man  shiv- 
ered as  the  eye  fell  on  him,  as  well  he  might, 
because  he  carried  in  his  pocket  a  work  de- 
signed to  represent  the  head  of  the  CO. — a 
head  of  which,  by  the  way,  salient  features 
lent  themselves  readily  to  caricature.  None 
of  these  features  had  been  overlooked  by  the 
artist,  and  the  identity  of  the  portrait  had 
been   further   established  by   the   eye-glass 


10  FRONT  LINES 

which  it  wore,  and  by  the  exaggerated  badges 
of  rank  on  the  shoulder.  Up  to  the  inspec- 
tion and  the  horrible  prospect  that  the  cari- 
cature would  be  confronted  by  its  original, 
the  artist  had  been  delighted  mth  the  praise 
bestowed  by  the  critics  on  the  "likeness." 
Now,  with  the  eye  of  the  CO.  roaming  over 
his  shrinking  person  and  protruding  pocket, 
he  cursed  despairingly  his  own  skill. 

''I  think,"  said  the  CO.  slowly,  "the  pa- 
rade had  better  dismiss,  and  when  they  have 
unburdened  themselves  of  their — ah — ele- 
phants and — ah — coffins — ah — fall  in  again 
for  inspection." 

The  portrait  sculptor  nearly  precipitated 
calamity  by  his  eager  move  to  dismiss  with- 
out waiting  for  the  word  of  command.  And 
after  this  incident  sculpings  were  left  out  of 
pockets  at  parade  times,  and  the  caricaturist 
forswore  any  attempts  on  subjects  higher 
than  an  N.CO. 

The  elephant  which  Private  Copple  had 
produced  was  another  upward  step  in  his  art. 
He  had  tried  animal  after  animal  with  faint 
success.     The   features   of  even   such  well- 


TRENCH-MADE  ART  11 

known  animals  as  cats  and  cows  had  a  baf- 
fling way  of  fading  to  such  nebulous  outlines 
in  his  memory  as  to  be  utterly  unrecognisable 
when  transferred  to  stone  or  chalk.  A  horse, 
although  models  in  plenty  were  around, 
proved  to  be  a  more  intricate  subject  than 
might  be  imagined,  and  there  were  trying 
difficulties  about  the  proper  dimensions  and 
proportions  of  head,  neck,  and  body.  But  an 
elephant  had  a  beautiful  simplicity  of  out- 
line, a  solidity  of  figure  that  was  excellently 
adapted  for  modelling,  and  a  recognisability 
that  was  proof  against  the  carping  doubts 
and  scorn  of  critics  and  rival  artists.  Alter 
all,  an  animal  with  four  legs,  a  trunk,  and  a 
tail  is,  and  must  be,  an  elephant.  But  there 
was  one  great  difficulty  about  the  elephant — 
his  tail  was  a  most  extraordinarily  difficult 
thing  to  produce  whole  and  complete  in  brit- 
tle chalk,  and  there  was  a  distressing  casualty 
list  of  almost-finished  elephants  from  this 
weakness. 

At  first  Private  Copple  made  the  tail  the 
last  finishing  touch  to  his  work,  but  when  ele- 
phant after  elephant  had  to  be  scrapped  be- 


12  FRONT  LINES 

cause  the  tail  broke  off  in  the  final  carving, 
he  reversed  the  process,  began  his  work  on 
the  tail  and  trunk — another  irritatingly 
breakable  part  of  an  elephant's  anatomy — 
and  if  these  were  completed  successfully, 
went  on  to  legs,  head,  etc.  If  the  trunk  or 
tail  broke,  he  threw  away  the  block  and 
started  on  a  fresh  one.  He  finally  improved 
on  this  and  further  reduced  the  wastage  and 
percentage  of  loss  by  beginning  his  elephant 
with  duplicate  ends,  with  a  trunk,  that  is,  at 
head  and  stern.  If  one  trunk  broke  off  he 
turned  the  remaining  portion  satisfactorily 
enough  into  a  tail;  if  neither  broke  and  the 
body  and  legs  were  completed  without  acci- 
dent, he  simply  whittled  one  of  the  trunks 
down  into  a  tail  and  rounded  off  the  head  at 
that  end  into  a  haunch. 

But  now  such  humour  as  maj"  be  in  this 
story  must  give  way  for  the  moment  to  the 
tragedy  of  red  war — as  humour  so  often  has 
to  do  at  the  front. 

Copple  was  just  in  the  middle  of  a  specially 
promising  elephant  when  orders  came  to 
move.    He  packed  the  elephant  carefully  in 


TRENCH-MADE  ART  13 

a  handkerchief  and  his  pocket  and  took  it 
with  him  back  to  the  training  area  where  for 
a  time  the  Oughth  London  went  through  a 
careful  instruction  and  rehearsing  in  the  part 
they  were  to  play  in  the  next  move  of  the 
''Show"  then  running.  He  continued  to 
work  on  his  elephant  in  such  spare  time  as 
he  had,  and  was  so  very  pleased  with  it  that 
he  clung  to  it  when  they  went  on  the  march 
again,  although  pocket  space  was  precious 
and  ill  to  spare,  and  the  elephant  took  up  one 
complete  side  pocket  to  itself. 

Arrived  at  their  appointed  place  in  the 
show,  Copple  continued  to  carry  his  elephant, 
but  had  little  time  to  work  on  it  because  he 
was  busy  every  moment  of  the  day  and  many 
hours  of  the  night  on  his  hard  and  risky 
duties.  The  casualties  came  back  to  the  Aid 
Post  in  a  steady  stream  that  swelled  at  times 
to  an  almost  overwhelming  rush,  and  every 
man  of  the  Field  Ambulance  was  kept  going 
at  his  hardest.  The  Aid  Post  was  established 
in  a  partly  wrecked  German  gun  emplacement 
built  of  concrete,  and  because  all  the  ground 
about  them  was  too  ploughed  up  and  cratered 


14  FRONT  LINES 

with  sliell-fire  to  allow  a  motor  ambulance  to 
approach  it,  the  wounded  had  to  be  helped 
or  carried  back  to  the  nearest  point  to  which 
the  hard-working  engineers  had  carried  the 
new  road,  and  there  were  placed  on  the  mo- 
tors. 

Private  Copple  was  busy  one  morning  help- 
ing to  carry  back  some  of  the  casualties.  A 
hot  ''strafe"  was  on,  the  way  back  led 
through  lines  and  clumped  batches  of  bat- 
teries all  in  hot  action,  the  roar  of  gun-fire 
rose  long  and  unbroken  and  deafeningly,  and 
every  now  and  then  through  the  roar  of  their 
reports  and  the  diminishing  wails  of  their 
departing  shells  there  came  the  rising  shriek 
and  rush  of  a  German  shell,  the  crump  and 
crash  of  its  burst,  the  whistle  and  hum  of  fly- 
ing splinters.  Private  Copple  and  the  rest 
of  the  E.A.M.C.  men  didn't  like  it  any  more 
than  the  casualties,  who  appeared  to  dread 
much  more,  now  that  they  were  wounded,  the 
chance  of  being  hit  again,  chiefly  because  it 
would  be  such  "rotten  luck"  to  get  killed 
now  that  they  had  done  their  share,  got  their 
"Blighty,"  and  with  decent  luck  were  soon 


TRENCH-MADE  ART  15 

to  be  out  of  it  all,  and  safely  and  comfortably 
back  in  hospital  and  home. 

But,  although  many  times  the  wounded 
asked  to  be  laid  down  in  a  shell-hole,  or  al- 
lowed to  take  cover  for  a  moment  at  the  warn- 
ing shriek  of  an  approaching  shell,  the  ambu- 
lance men  only  gave  way  to  them  when,  from 
the  noise,  they  judged  the  shell  was  going  to 
fall  very  perilously  close.  If  they  had 
stopped  for  every  shell  the  work  would  have 
taken  too  long,  and  the  Aid  Post  was  too 
cram-full,  and  too  many  fresh  cases  were 
pouring  in,  to  allow  of  any  delay  on  the  mere 
account  of  danger.  So  there  were  during  the 
day  a  good  many  casualties  amongst  the  am- 
bulance men,  and  so  at  the  end  Private  Cop- 
pie  was  caught.  He  had  hesitated  a  moment 
too  long  in  dropping  himself  into  the  cover 
of  the  shell  crater  where  he  had  just  lowered 
the  ^'walking  wounded"  he  was  supporting 
back.  The  shell  whirled  down  in  a  crescendo 
of  howling,  roaring  noise,  and,  just  as  Copple 
flung  himself  down,  burst  with  an  earth- 
shaking  crash  a  score  or  so  of  yards  away. 
Copple  felt  a  tremendous  blow  on  his  side. 


16  FRONT  LINES 

They  had  ripped  most  of  the  clothes  off  him 
and  were  busy  with  first  field  dressiiigs  on 
his  wounds  when  he  recovered  enough  to  take 
any  interest  in  what  was  going  on.  The 
dressers  were  in  a  hurry  because  more  shells 
were  falling  near ;  there  was  one  vacant  place 
in  a  motor  ambulance,  and  its  driver  was  in 
haste  to  be  off  and  out  of  it. 

^'You're  all  right,"  said  one  of  the  men, 
in  answer  to  Copple's  faint  inquiry.  *'A11 
light  wounds.  Lord  knows  what  you  were 
carrying  a  lump  of  stone  about  in  your  pocket 
for,  but  it  saved  you  this  trip.  Splinter  hit 
it,  and  smashed  it,  and  most  of  the  wounds 
are  from  bits  of  the  stone — luckily  for  you, 
because  if  it  hadn't  been  there  a  chunk  of 
Boche  iron  would  just  about  have  gone 
through  you." 

' '  Stone  ? ' '  said  Copple  faintly.  * '  Strewth ! 
That  was  my  blessed  elephant  in  my  bloomin' 
pocket. ' ' 

"Elephant?"  said  the  orderly.  ''In  your 
pocket?  An'  did  it  have  pink  stripes  an'  a 
purple  tail?  Well,  never  mind  about  ele- 
phants now.     You  can  explain   'em  to  the 


TEENCH-MADE  ART  17 

Blighty  M.O.^  Here,  up  you  get/'  And  he 
helped  Copple  to  the  ambulance. 

Later  on,  the  humour  of  the  situation 
struck  Private  Copple.  He  worked  up  a 
prime  witticism  which  he  afterwards  played 
off  on  the  Sister  who  was  dressing  his 
wounds  in  a  London  hospital. 

*'D'you  know,"  he  said,  chuckling,  *'I'm 
the  only  man  in  this  war  that 's  been  wounded 
by  a  elephant?" 

The  Sister  stayed  her  bandaging,  and 
looked  at  him  curiously.  ''Wounded  by  a 
elephant,"  repeated  Copple  cheerfully. 
'  *  Funny  to  think  it 's  mebbe  a  bit  of  'is  trunk 
made  the  'ole  in  my  thigh,  an'  I  got  'is  'ead 
and  'is  'ind  leg  in  my  ribs." 

"You  mustn't  talk  nonsense,  you  know," 
said  the  Sister  hesitatingly.  Certainly,  Cop- 
ple had  shown  no  signs  of  shell-shock  or  un- 
balanced mind  before,  but 

*'We  used  to  carve  things  out  o'  chalk 
stone  in  my  lot,"  went  on  Copple,  and  ex- 
plained how  the  shell  splinter  had  been 
stopped  by  the  elephant  in  his  pocket.    The 

^  M.  O.  Medical  Officer 


18  FRONT  LINES 

Sister  was  immensely  interested  and  a  good 
deal  amused,  and  laughed — rather  immoder- 
ately and  in  the  wrong  place,  as  Copple 
thought  when  he  described  his  coffin  master- 
piece with  the  name-plate  bearing  his  own 
name,  and  the  dodge  of  starting  on  the  ele- 
phant with  a  trunk  at  each  end. 

''Well,  I've  heard  a  lot  of  queer  things 
about  the  front,  Copple,"  she  said,  busying 
herself  on  the  last  bandage.  "But  I  didn't 
know  they  went  in  for  sculpture.  *  Ars  longa, 
vitae  brevis.'  That's  a  saying  in  Latin,  and 
it  means  exactly,  'Art  is  long,  life  is  short.' 
You'd  understand  it  better  if  I  put  it  an- 
other way.  It  means  that  it  takes  a  long, 
long  time  to  make  a  perfect  elephant '* 

"It  does,"  said  Copple.  "But  if  you  be- 
gins 'im  like  I  told  you,  with  a  trunk  each 
end " 

"There,  that'll  do,'*  said  the  Sister,  pin- 
ning the  last  bandage.  "Now  lie  down  and 
I'll  make  you  comfortable.  A  long  time  to 
make  a  perfect  elephant;  and  life  is  very 
short " 


TRENCH-MADE  ART  19 

''That's  true,"  said  Copple.  ''Especially 
Tip  Wipers  way. ' ' 

"So,  if  making  elephants  gives  some  peo- 
ple the  greatest  possible  pleasure  in  life,  why 
not  let  them  make  elephants'?  I'm  an  artist 
of  sorts  myself,  or  was  trying  to  be  before 
the  war,  so  I  speak  feelingly  for  a  brother 
elephant-maker,  Copple." 

"Artist,  was  you?"  said  Copple,  with 
great  interest.  "That  must  be  a  jolly  sorter 
job." 

"It  is,  Copple — or  was,"  said  the  Sister, 
finishing  the  tucking-up.  "Much  jollier  than 
a  starched-smooth  uniform  and  life — and  lots 
in  it."  And  she  sighed  and  made  a  little 
grimace  at  the  stained  bandages  she  picked 
up.  "But  if  you  and  thousands  of  other 
men  give  up  your  particular  arts  and  go  out 
to  have  your  short  lives  cut  shorter,  the  least 
I  can  do  is  to  give  up  mine  to  try  to  make 
them  longer." 

Copple  didn't  quite  follow  all  this.  "I 
wish  I'd  a  bit  o'  chalk  stone,  Sister,"  he  said; 
"I'd  teach  you  how  to  do  a  elephant  with  the 
two  trunks." 


20  FRONT  LINES 

*'And  how  if  a  trunk  breaks  off  one's  ele- 
phant— or  life,  one  can  always  try  to  trim  it 
down  to  quite  a  useful  tail,"  said  the  Sister, 
smiling  at  him  as  she  turned  to  go.  * '  You  Ve 
already  taught  me  something  of  that,  Copple 
— you  and  the  rest  there  in  the  trenches — 
better  than  you  know." 


n 

THE  SUICIDE  CLUB 

The  Royal  Jocks  (Ouglith  Battalion)  had 
suffered  heavily  in  the  fighting  on  the  Sonune, 
and  after  they  had  been  withdrawn  from  ac- 
tion to  another  and  quieter  part  of  the  line, 
all  ranks  heard  with  satisfaction  that  they 
were  to  be  made  up  to  full  strength  by  a  big 
draft  from  Home.  There  were  the  usual 
wonderings  and  misgivings  as  to  what  sort 
of  a  crowd  the  draft  would  be,  and  whether 
they  would  be  at  aU  within  the  limits  of  possi- 
bility of  licking  into  something  resembling 
the  shape  that  Royal  Jocks  ought  to  be. 

** Expect  we'll  'ave  a  tidy  job  to  teach  'em 
wot's  wot,"  said  Private  ''Shirty"  Low, 
*'but  we  must  just  pass  along  all  the  fatigues 
they  can  'andle,  and  teach  'em  the  best  we 
can." 

"Let's  hope,"  said  his  companion,  **that 

they  get  an  advance  o '  pay  to  bring  with  'em. 

21 


22  FRONT  LINES 

We'll  be  goin'  back  to  billets  soon,  and  we'll 
be  able  to  introduce  'em  proper  to  the 
estaminets. ' ' 

*'You  boys '11  have  to  treat  'em  easy  to 
begin  with,"  said  a  corporal.  "Don't  go 
breakin'  their  hearts  for  a  start.  They'll  be 
pretty  sick  an'  home-sick  for  a  bit,  and  you 
don't  want  to  act  rough  before  they  begin 
to  feel  their  feet." 

This  was  felt  to  be  reasonable,  and  there 
was  a  very  unanimous  opinion  that  the  best 
way  of  treating  the  new  arrivals  was  on  the 
lines  of  the  suggestion  about  introducing 
them  carefully  and  fully  to  the  ways  of  the 
country,  with  particular  attention  to  the  cus- 
toms of  the  estaminets. 

**Aiid  never  forget,"  said  the  Corporal  in 
conclusion,  ''that,  good  or  bad,  they're  Royal 
Jocks  after  all ;  and  it  will  be  up  to  you  fel- 
lows to  see  that  they  don't  get  put  on  by  any 
other  crush,  and  to  give  'em  a  help  out  if  they 
tumble  into  any  little  trouble." 

The  sentiments  of  the  battalion  being 
fairly  well  summed  up  by  this  typical  con- 
versation, it  will  be  understood  with  what 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  23 

mixed  feelings  it  was  discovered  on  the  ac- 
tual arrival  of  tlie  draft  that  they,  the  draft, 
were  not  in  the  slightest  degree  disposed  to 
be  treated  as  new  hands,  declined  utterly  to 
be  in  any  way  fathered,  declined  still  more 
emphatically  to  handle  more  than  their  fair 
share  of  fatigues,  and  most  emphatically  of 
all  to  depend  upon  the  good  offices  of  the  old 
soldiers  for  their  introduction  to  the  ways  of 
the  estaminets.  The  draft,  which  was  far 
too  strong  in  numbers  to  be  simply  absorbed 
and  submerged  in  the  usual  way  of  drafts, 
showed  an  inclination  to  hang  together  for 
the  first  few  days,  and,  as  the  Battalion  soon 
began  somewhat  dazedly  to  realise,  actually 
to  look  down  upon  the  old  soldiers  and  to 
treat  them  with  a  tinge  of  condescension. 

The  open  avowal  of  this  feeling  came  one 
night  in  the  largest  and  most  popular  esta- 
minet  in  the  village  to  which  the  Battalion 
had  been  withdrawn  ''on  rest.'* 

''Shirty"  and  some  cronies  were  sitting  at 
a  stone-topped  table  with  glasses  and  a  jug 
of  watery  beer  in  front  of  them.  The  room 
was  fairly  full  and  there  were  about  as  many 


24  FRONT  LINES 

of  the  draft  present  as  there  were  of  the  old 
lot,  and  practically  all  the  draft  were  gath- 
ered in  little  groups  by  themselves  and  were 
drinking  together.  Close  to  Shirty 's  table 
was  another  with  half  a  dozen  of  the  draft 
seated  about  it,  and  Shirty  and  his  friends 
noticed  with  some  envy  the  liberal  amount  of 
beer  they  allowed  themselves.  One  of  them 
spoke  to  the  girl  who  was  moving  about 
amongst  the  tables  with  a  tray  full  of  jugs. 
''Here,  miss,  anither  jug  o'  beer,  please," 
and  held  out  the  empty  jug.  Shirty  saw  his 
opportunity,  and  with  an  ingratiating  smile 
leaned  across  and  spoke  to  the  girl.  ''Don- 
nay  them  encore  der  bee-are,"  he  said,  and 
then,  turning  to  the  other  men,  "She  don't 
understand  much  English,  y'see.  But  jus' 
ask  me  to  pass  'er  the  word  if  you  wants 
anything. ' ' 

A  big-framed  lad  thanked  him  civilly,  but 
Shirty  fancied  he  saw  a  flicker  of  a  smile  pass 
round  the  group.  He  turned  back  and  spoke 
to  the  girl  again  as  she  halted  at  their  table 
and  picked  up  the  empty  jug.  "Encore  si 
voo  play,"  he  said.     "Eh  les  messieurs  la 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  25 

ba "  jerking  a  thumb  back  at  the  other 

table,  but  quite  unostentatiously,  so  that  the 
other  group  might  not  see,  *4a  ba,  voo  com- 
pree,  payay  voo  toot  la  bee-are."  He  winked 
slyly  at  his  fellows  and  waited  developments 
complacently,  while  all  smoked  their  cig- 
arettes gravely  and  nonchalantly. 

The  girl  brought  the  two  jugs  of  beer  pres- 
ently and  put  one  on  each  table.  ''Com- 
bien?"  said  one  of  the  draft  who  had  not 
spoken  before — a  perky  little  man  with  a 
sharp  black  moustache.  He  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment when  the  girl  told  him  how  much,  and 
then  spoke  rapidly  in  fluent  French.  Shirty 
at  his  table  listened  uneasily  to  the  conversa- 
tion that  followed,  and  made  a  show  of  great 
indifference  in  filling  up  the  glasses.  The 
little  man  turned  to  him.  "There's  some 
mistake  here,  m'  lad,"  he  said.  **The  girl 
says  you  ordered  your  beer  and  said  we'd 
pay  for  it. ' ' 

Shirty  endeavoured  to  retrieve  the  lost 
position.  "Well,  that's  good  of  you,"  he 
said  pleasantly.  "An'  we  don't  mind  if  we 
do  'ave  a  drink  wi'  you." 


26  FRONT  LINES 

The  big  man  turned  round.  "Drink  wi*s 
when  ye 're  asked,"  he  said  calmly.  *'But 
that's  no'  yet,"  and  he  turned  hack  to  his  own 
table.  ''Tell  her  they'll  pay  their  ain,  Wat- 
tie."  Wattie  told  her,  and  Shirty 's  table 
with  some  difficulty  raised  enough  to  cover 
the  cost  of  the  beer.  Shirty  felt  that  he  had 
to  impress  these  new  men  with  a  true  sense 
of  their  position.  "My  mistake,"  he  said  to 
his  companions,  but  loudly  enough  for  all  to 
hear.  "But  I  might  'ave  twigged  these  raw 
rookies  wouldn't  'ave  knowed  it  was  a  reg'lar 
custom  in  the  Army  for  them  to  stand  a  drink 
to  the  old  hands  to  pay  their  footing.  An' 
most  likely  they  haven't  the  price  o'  a  drink 
on  them,  anyway." 

"Lauchie,"  said  the  big  man  at  the  other 
table,  "have  ye  change  o'  a  ten-franc  note? 
No.  "Wattie,  maybe  ye '11  ask  the  lassie  to 
change  it,  an'  tell  her  to  bring  anither  beer. 
This  is  awfu'  swipes  o'  stuff  t'  be  drinkin'. 
It's  nae  wonder  the  men  that's  been  oot  here 
a  whilie  has  droppit  awa'  to  such  shauchlin', 
knock-kneed,  weak-like  imitations  of  putty 
men." 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  27 

This  was  too  much.  Shirty  pushed  back 
his  chair  and  rose  abruptly.  "If  you're 
speakin'  about  the  men  o'  this  battalion,"  he 
began  fiercely,  when  a  corporal  broke  in, 
''That'll  do.  No  rough-housin '  here.  We 
don't  want  the  estaminets  put  out  o'  bounds." 
He  turned  to  the  other  table.  ' '  And  you  keep 
a  civil  tongue  between  your  teeth,"  he  said, 
''or  you'll  have  to  be  taught  better  manners, 
young  fella  me  lad." 

"Ay,"  said  the  big  man  easily,  "I'll  be 
glad  enough  t'  be  learned  from  them  that 
can  learn  me.  An'  aifter  the  cafe  closes  will 
be  a  good  enough  time  for  a  first  lesson,  if 
there's  anybody  minded  for't,"  and  he 
glanced  at  Shirty. 

"Tak  him  ootside  an'  gie  him  a  deb  on  the 
snoot,  Rabbie,"  said  another  of  the  draft, 
nodding  openly  at  the  enraged  Shirty. 

"Ay,  ay,  Wullie,"  said  Rabbie  gently. 
"But  we'll  just  bide  till  the  Corporal's  no 
about.  We'll  no  be  gettin'  his  stripes  into 
trouble. ' ' 

All  this  was  bad  enough,  but  worse  was  to 
follow.    It  was  just  before  closing-time  that 


28  FRONT  LINES 

a  Gtmner  came  in  and  discovered  a  friefid 
amongst  the  many  sitting  at  Rabbie's  table. 
He  accepted  the  pressing  invitation  to  a 
drink,  and  had  several  in  quick  succession  in 
an  endeavour  to  make  an  abundant  capacity 
compensate  for  the  inadequate  time. 

**An'  how  are  you  gettin'  on!''  he  asked 
as  they  all  stood  to  go.  ''Shaken  down  wi' 
your  new  chums  all  right?" 

And  the  whole  room,  new  hands  and  old 
alike,  heard  Eabbie's  slow,  clear  answer: 

*'We're  thinkin'  they're  an  awfu'  saft 
kneel-an'-pray  kind  o'  push.  But  noo  we've 
jined  them  we  '11  sune  learn  them  to  be  a  bat- 
talyun.  I  wish  we'd  a  few  more  o'  the  real 
stuff  from  the  depot  wi's,  but  Lauchie  here's 
the  lad  tae  learn  them,  and  we'll  maybe  mak 
a  battaljmn  o'  them  yet." 

The  ''learning"  began  that  night  after  the 
estaminets  closed,  and  there  was  a  liberal 
allowance  of  black  eyes  and  swollen  features 
on  parade  next  morning.  It  transpired  that 
boxing  had  been  rather  a  feature  back  at  the 
depot,  and  the  new  men  fully  held  their  own 
in  the  "learning"  episodes.    But  out  of  the 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  29 

encounters  grew  a  mutual  respect,  and  be- 
fore long  the  old  and  the  new  had  mixed, 
and  were  a  battalion  instead  of  ' '  the  battalion 
and  the  draft. ' ' 

Only  '' Shirty '^  of  the  whole  lot  retained 
any  animus  against  the  new,  and  perhaps 
even  with  him  it  is  hardly  fair  to  say  it  was 
against  the  one-time  draft,  because  actually 
it  was  against  one  or  two  members  of  it.  He 
had  never  quite  forgiven  nor  forgotten  the 
taking-down  he  had  had  from  Rabbie  Mao- 
gregor  and  Lauchie  McLauchlan,  and  con- 
tinued openly  or  veiledly  hostile  to  them. 

Thrice  he  had  fought  Rabbie,  losing  once 
to  him — that  was  the  first  time  after  the  es- 
taminet  episode — fighting  once  to  an  unde- 
cided finish  (which  was  when  the  picket  broke 
in  and  arrested  both),  and  once  with  the 
gloves  on  at  a  Battalion  Sports,  when  he  had 
been  declared  the  winner  on  points — a  de- 
cision which  Rabbie  secretly  refused  to  ac- 
cept, and  his  friend  Lauchie  agreed  would 
have  been  reversed  if  the  fight  had  been  al- 
lowed to  go  to  a  finish. 

Shirty   was    in   the   bombing   section,    or 


30  FRONT  LINES 

'^ Suicide  Club,"  as  it  was  called,  and  both 
Rabbie  and  Lauchie  joined  the  same  section, 
and  painfully  but  very  thoroughly  acquired 
the  art  of  hurling  Mills '  grenades  at  seen  or 
unseen  targets  from  above  ground  or  out  of 
deep  and  narrow  and  movement-cramping 
trenches. 

And  after  a  winter  and  spring  of  strenu- 
ous training,  the  battalion  came  at  last  to 
move  up  and  take  a  part  in  the  new  offensive 
of  1917.  This  attack  had  several  features 
about  it  that  pleased  and  surprised  even  the 
veterans  of  the  Somme.  For  one  thing,  the 
artillery  fire  on  our  side  had  a  weight  and  a 
precision  far  beyond  anything  they  had  ex- 
perienced, and  the  attack  over  the  open  of 
No  Man's  Land  was  successfully  made  with 
a  low  cost  in  casualties  which  simply  amazed 
them  all. 

Rabbie  openly  scoffed  at  the  nickname  of 
"Suicide  Club"  for  the  Bombing  Section. 
They  had  lost  a  couple  of  men  wounded  in 
the  first  attack,  and  had  spent  a  merry  morn- 
ing frightening  Boche  prisoners  out  of  their 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  31 

dug-outs,  or  in  obstinate  cases  flinging  Mills' 
grenades  down  the  stairways. 

They  had  waited  to  help  stand  off  the 
counter-attack  the  first  night,  but  never 
needed  to  raise  their  heads  or  fling  a  bomb 
over  the  edge  of  the  broken  parapet,  because 
the  counter-attack  was  wiped  out  by  artil- 
lery and  rifle  fire  long  before  it  came  within 
bombing  distance. 

**You  an'  yer  Suicide  Club!"  said  Rabbie 
contemptuously  to  Shirty  after  this  attack 
had  been  beaten  off.  ''It's  no  even  what  the 
insurance  folks  would  ca'  a  hazardous  occu- 
pation." 

'  *  Wait  a  bit, ' '  said  Shirty.  ' '  We  all  knows 
you're  a  bloomin'  Scots-wha-hae  hero,  but 
you  'aven't  bin  in  it  proper  yet.  Wait  till 
you  'ave,  an'  then  talk." 

The  Bombing  Section  went  into  it 
''proper"  next  day,  when  the  battalion  made 
a  little  forward  move  that  cost  them  more 
casualties  to  take  a  trench  and  a  hundred 
yards  of  ground  than  the  mile  advance  of  the 
previous  day. 

And  when  they  had  got  the  battered  trench, 


32  FRONT  LINES 

the  bombers  were  sent  to  clear  a  conununica- 
tion  trench  leading  out  of  it  and  held  by  the 
Germans.  This  trench  was  more  or  less 
broken  down,  with  fallen  sides  or  tmnbled 
heaps  of  earth  and  gaping  shell  craters  every 
here  and  there  along  its  length.  The  Ger- 
mans contested  it  stoutly,  and  the  bombers 
had  to  keep  below  the  level  of  the  ground  and 
strictly  to  the  trench,  because  above-ground 
was  being  swept  by  a  hurricane  of  rifle  and 
machine-gun  fire  from  both  sides.  Length  by 
length  of  the  zig-zag  trench  they  pushed  their 
way,  their  grenades  curving  up  and  ahead  of 
them,  the  German  ''potato-masher"  grenades 
whirling  over  and  down  in  on  them,  explod- 
ing with  a  prodigious  noise  and  smoke  but 
comparatively  little  damage,  and  yet  cutting 
down  the  attackers  one  by  one 

Rabbie,  Lauchie,  and  Shirty  were  all  in  the 
trench  together,  and  were  still  on  their  feet 
when  they  came  to  the  point  where  the  com- 
munication trench  ran  into  another,  a  sup- 
port trench  presumably,  running  across  it. 
At  this  point  they  were  supposed  to  hold  on 
and  consolidate.    All  had  gone  well  accord- 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  33 

ing  to  programme  with  Babble  and  his  com- 
panions, and  they  turned  into  the  support 
trench,  cleared  a  couple  of  bays  to  either  side 
of  the  communication  way,  pulled  down  sand- 
bags, and  piled  earth  to  make  a  ''block"  on 
either  side,  and  settled  down  to  hold  their 
position  and  to  await  orders. 

They  were  not  left  in  peaceful  possession 
for  long.  A  vigorous  attack  was  delivered, 
first  at  one  barricade  and  then  on  the  other, 
and  both  were  beaten  off  with  some  difficulty 
and  a  number  of  casualties.  The  bombers 
had  been  reinforced  several  times  to  make  up 
their  reduced  numbers,  but  no  further  rein- 
forcements had  come  to  them  for  some  time, 
and  now  there  were  only  half  a  dozen  of  them 
and  one  officer  left.  The  officer  sent  back  a 
lightly  wounded  man  to  say  they  held  their 
point,  but  wanted  support.  The  message,  as 
they  found  afterwards,  never  got  through,  be- 
cause the  messenger  was  killed  on  the  way  by 
a  shell  splinter. 

Another  heavy  and  determined  attack  of 
bombers  came  soon  after.  For  five  minutes 
the  Germans  showered  over  their  grenades, 


34  FRONT  LINES 

and  the  short  section  of  trench  held  hy  the 
little  party  of  Royal  Jocks  was  shaken  to 
pieces  hy  the  force  of  the  explosions,  the 
sandhag  *' blocks"  almost  destroyed,  several 
more  men  hit,  and  the  officer  killed.  The 
Jocks  returned  the  shower  of  bombs  with 
plentiful  Mills'  grenades,  but  they  were 
forced  back,  and  almost  the  last  thing  the  offi- 
cer did  before  he  was  killed  was  to  retire  the 
remnants  of  the  party  to  the  communication 
trench  entrance,  build  a  fresh  block,  and  pre- 
pare to  hold  on  there.  There  were  only  four 
men  left,  and  all  were  more  or  less  lightly 
wounded  with  splinters  from  the  German 
grenades.  Just  before  another  attack  came 
they  were  reinforced  by  two  bayonet  men, 
and  one  bomber  with  buckets  of  Mills '. 

"We're  all  that's  left  o'  C  Company's 
bombers,"  said  one  of  them.  "We  were  sent 
up  to  reinforce,  but  they're  shellin'  the 
trench  back  there,  an'  the  others  was 
knocked  out." 

Another  savage  attack  followed,  and  was 
beaten  off  with  difficulty  and  the  loss  of  an- 
other couple  of  men.     Since  there  was  no 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  35 

officer  and  no  N.C.O.  there,  Shirty,  as  the 
oldest  soldier,  took  charge. 

"This  isn't  good  enough,''  he  shouted  as 
another  shower  of  grenades  began  to  pitch 
over  and  burst  with  rending  explosions  in 
and  about  the  trench.  "Why  don't  they  rein- 
force. I'm  goin'  to  retire  if  they  don't  send 
supports  soon." 

Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  officer  bring- 
ing up  the  last  supports  had  received  orders 
to  retire  the  party  if  they  were  hard  pressed, 
because  the  attacks  up  the  other  communica- 
tion trenches  had  failed  to  clear  a  way,  and 
this  one  party  was  in  danger  of  being  over- 
whelmed. But  since  the  little  party  knew 
nothing  of  these  orders  they  were  reluctant 
to  retire,  and  unfortunately  there  was  little 
prospect  of  the  supports  they  expected  com- 
ing. 

Their  grenades  were  running  short,  too, 
and  that  decided  the  point  for  them.  Shirty 
Low  and  Rabbie  were  crouched  close  up 
against  their  barricade,  and  Lauchie  took 
what  cover  he  could  get  behind  the  heaped 
debris  of  the  broken-down  trench  wall  close 


36  FRONT  LINES 

at  Rabble's  side.  He  was  squatted  in  a  little 
niche  of  the  wall  and  high  enough  up  to  allow 
him  to  lift  his  head  and  peep  over  the  para- 
pet. He  ducked  his  head  as  several  grenades 
spun  over,  lifted  it,  and  peered  out  again. 

*  *  Here  they  come, ' '  he  shouted.  '  *  Lat  them 
hae't.  Eabbie,  pass  me  up  some  o'  they 
bombs." 

"WuU  I  hell,"  retorted  Rabbie,  rapidly 
pulling  the  pins  out,  and  tossing  his  grenades 
over.    ^'Get  yer  bombs  yersel'." 

''One  of  you  two  must  go  back  and  get 
some  Mills',"  shouted  Shirty.  "We'll  'ave  to 
duck  back,  but  we'll  need  supplies  to  stand 
'em  off  with.  Go  on  now,  one  o'  you.  Look 
nippy.    We've  'ardly  any  left." 

' '  Go  on,  Lauchie, ' '  said  Rabbie.  ' '  I  've  half 
a  dizen  left,  an'  you've  nane." 

''I  will  no,"  said  Lauchie  indignantly. 
''Gang  yersel'.  I'm  the  senior  o'  us  twa,  an' 
I'm  tellin'  ye." 

"You  ma  senior,"  shouted  Rab  indig- 
nantly. "Yer  no  ma  senior.  I  was  sojerin' 
lang  afore  ever  ye  jined  up." 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  37 

''Havers,  man.  YeVe  hardly  been  off  the 
square  five  meenutes." 

Shirty  broke  in  angrily.  ''Will  you  shut 
yer  heads,  and  get  back,  one  o'  you?  We'll 
be  done  in  if  they  rush  us  again." 

"See  here,  Rabbie,"  said  Lauchie,  "I'll 
prove  yer  no  ma  senior,  and  then  mebbe  ye '11 
dae  what  yer  telled.  Here's  ma  paybook, 
wi'  date  o'  enlistment.    Let's  see  yours." 

And  he  was  actually  proceeding  to  fumble 
for  his  paybook,  and  Rabbie  eagerly  doing 
the  same,  when  Shirty  again  intervened,  curs- 
ing savagely,  and  ordering  Rabbie  back. 

"I'm  his  senior.  Shirty,  an'  he  should  go," 
said  Rabbie.    "Lat  him  show  you  his  book." 

"Book  be  blistered,"  yelled  Shirty.  "Go 
for  them  Mills'  or  I'll  have  you  crimed  for 
refusin'  an  order." 

Rabbie  slid  down  from  his  place.  "I  sup- 
pose yer  in  chairge  here,  Shirty,"  he  said. 
"But  mind  this — I'll  bring  the  Mills',  but  as 
sure 's  death  I  '11  hammer  the  heid  aff  ye  when 
I  get  ye  back  yonder  again.  Mind  that  now, ' ' 
and  he  scrambled  oif  back  along  the  trench. 

He  carried  a  couple  of  empty  buckets  with 


38  FRONT  LINES 

him,  and  as  he  went  he  heard  the  renewed 
crash  of  explosions  behind  him,  and  hastened 
his  pace,  knowing  the  desperate  straits  the 
two  would  be  in  without  bombs  to  beat  off  the 
attack.  The  trench  was  badly  wrecked,  and 
there  were  many  dead  of  both  sides  in  it,  so 
that  for  all  his  haste  he  f omid  the  going  des- 
perately slow. 

The  guns  were  firing  heavily  on  both  sides, 
but  presently  above  the  roar  of  their  fire  and 
the  wailing  rush  of  the  passing  shells  Rabbie 
heard  a  long  booming  drone  from  overhead, 
glanced  up  and  saw  the  plunging  shape  of  an 
aeroplane  swooping  down  and  over  his  head 
towards  the  point  he  had  left  the  others.  It 
was  past  in  a  flash  and  out  of  sight  beyond 
the  trench  wall  that  shut  him  in.  But  next 
instant  Rabbie  heard  the  sharp  rattle  of  her 
machine-gun,  a  pause,  and  then  another  long 
rattle.  Rabbie  grunted  his  satisfaction,  and 
resumed  his  toilsome  clambering  over  the 
debris.  *' That '11  gie  the  Fritzez  something 
tae  think  about,"  he  murmured,  and  then 
pounced  joyfully  on  a  full  bucket  of  Mills' 
grenades  lying  beside  a  dead  bomber.    Many 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  39 

more  grenades  were  scattered  round,  and 
Eabbie  hastily  filled  one  of  his  own  buckets 
and  grabbed  up  a  sandbag  he  found  partially 
filled  with  German  grenades. 

He  turned  to  hurry  back,  hearing  as  he 
did  so  another  crackle  of  overhead  machine- 
gun  fire.  Next  moment  the  plane  swept  over- 
head with  a  rush,  and  was  gone  back  towards 
the  lines  before  Rabbie  could  well  look  up. 
Half-way  back  to  where  he  had  left  the  others 
he  heard  the  crash  of  detonating  bombs,  and 
next  moment  came  on  Lauchie  crouching  at 
a  corner  of  the  trench,  the  blood  streaming 
down  his  face,  his  last  grenade  in  his  hand, 
and  his  fingers  on  the  pin  ready  to  pull  it. 
Rabbie  plumped  a  bucket  down  beside  him, 
and  without  words  the  two  began  plucking 
out  the  pins  and  hurling  the  grenades  round 
the  corner. 

"Where's  the  ithers?"  shouted  Rabbie 
when  the  shattering  roar  of  their  exploding 
grenades  had  died  down. 

"Dead,"  said  Lauchie  tersely.  "Except 
Shirty,  an'  he's  sair  wounded.     I  left  him 


40  FRONT  LINES 

hidin'  in  a  bit  broken  dug-out  half-a-dizen 
turns  o'  the  trench  back." 

"Come  on,"  said  Rabbie,  rising  abruptly. 
''We'll  awa'  back  an'  get  him. 

*'He  said  I  was  t'  retire  slow,  an'  hand 
them  back  as  well's  I  could,"  said  Lauchie. 

**I'm  awa'  back  for  him,"  said  Rabbie. 
*'Ye  needna  come  unless  ye  like." 

He  flung  a  couple  of  grenades  round  the 
corner ;  Lauchie  followed  suit,  and  the  instant 
they  heard  the  boom  of  the  explosions  both 
pushed  round  and  up  the  next  stretch  through 
the  eddying  smoke  and  reek,  pulling  the  pins 
as  they  ran,  and  tossing  the  bombs  ahead  of 
them  into  the  next  section  of  trench.  And 
so,  in  spite  of  the  German  bombers'  resist- 
ance, they  bombed  their  way  back  to  where 
Shirty  had  been  left.  Several  times  they  trod 
over  or  past  the  bodies  of  men  killed  by  their 
bombs,  once  they  encountered  a  wounded  offi- 
cer kneeling  with  his  shoulder  against  the 
trench  wall  and  snapping  a  couple  of  shots 
from  a  magazine  pistol  at  them  as  they 
plunged  through  the  smoke.  Rabbie  stunned 
him  with  a  straight  and  hard-flung  bomb, 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  41 

leapt,  dragging  LaucMe  with  him,  back  into 
cover  until  the  bomb  exploded,  and  then  ran 
forward  again.  He  stooped  in  passing  and 
picked  np  the  pistol  from  beside  the  shat- 
tered body.  ** Might  be  useful,"  he  said, 
*'an'  it's  a  good  sooveneer  onyway.  I  prom- 
ised a  sooveneer  tae  yon  French  lassie  back 
in  Poppyring." 

They  found  Shirty  crouched  back  and  hid- 
den in  the  mouth  of  a  broken-down  dug-out, 
and  helped  him  out  despite  his  protests.  ''I 
was  all  right  there,"  he  said.  ''You  two  get 
back  as  slow  as  you  can,  and  keep  them  back 
all " 

"See  here,  Shirty,"  Rabbie  broke  in,  "yer 
no  in  charge  o'  the  pairty  now.  Yer  a  cas- 
ualty an'  I'm  the  senior — I've  ma  paybook 
here  t'  prove  it  if  ye  want,  so  just  baud  your 
wheesh  an'  come  on." 

He  hoisted  the  wounded  man — Shirty 's  leg 
was  broken  and  he  had  many  other  minor 
wounds — to  his  shoulder,  and  began  to  move 
back  while  Lauchie  followed  close  behind, 
halting  at  each  corner  to  cover  the  retreat 
with  a  short  bombing  encounter. 


42  FRONT  LINES 

Half-way  back  they  met  a  strong  support 
party  which  had  been  dispatched  immediately 
after  the  receipt  by  the  H.Q.  signallers  of  a 
scribbled  note  dropped  by  a  low-flying  aero- 
plane. The  party  promptly  blocked  the 
trench,  and  prepared  to  hold  it  strongly  until 
the  time  came  again  to  advance,  and  the  three 
bombers  were  all  passed  back  to  make  their 
way  to  the  dressing  station. 

There  Shirty  was  placed  on  a  stretcher  and 
made  ready  for  the  ambulance,  and  the  other 
two,  after  their  splinter  cuts  and  several 
slight  wounds  had  been  bandaged,  prepared 
to  walk  back. 

''So  long,  Shirty,'*  said  Rabbie.  ''See  ye 
again  when  ye  come  up  an'  rejine." 

"So  long,  chum,"  said  Shirty,  "an'  I'm — 
er — I "  And  he  stammered  some  halt- 
ing phrase  of  thanks  to  them  for  coming  back 
to  fetch  him  out, 

"Havers,"  said  Rabbie,  "I  wisna  goin'  t' 
leave  ye  there  tae  feenish  the  war  in  a  Fritz 
jail.  An'  yer  forgettin'  whit  I  promised  ye 
back  there  when  ye  ordered  me  for  they 
bombs — that  I'd  hammer  yer  heid  aff  when 


THE  SUICIDE  CLUB  43 

we  came  oot.  I'll  just  mind  ye  o*  that  when 
ye  jine  up  again." 

**Right-o,'^  said  Shirty  happily.  "I  won't 
let  you  forget  it. " 

"I  wunner,"  said  Rabhie  reflectively,  light- 
ing a  cigarette  after  Shirty  had  gone — "I 
wunner  if  he'll  ever  be  fit  t'  jine  again.  I'd 
fair  like  t'  hae  anither  bit  scrap  wi'  him,  for 
I  never  was  richt  satisfied  wi'  yon  decesion 
against  me." 

'^He's  like  t'  be  Corporal  or  Sairgint  time 
he  comes  oot  again,"  said  Lauchie.  ** Promo- 
tion's quick  in  they  Reserve  an'  Trainin' 
Brigades  at  hame." 

*'If  we're  no  killed  we're  like  t'  be  Cor- 
porals or  Sairgints  oorselves,"  said  Rabbie. 
**When  we're  in  action  I'm  thinkin'  promo- 
tions are  quick  enought  oot  here  in  the  Sui- 
cide Club." 


Ill 

IN  THE  WOOD 

The  attack  on  the  wood  had  begun  soon  after 
dawn,  and  it  was  no  more  than  8  a.m.  when 
the  Corporal  was  dropped  badly  wounded  in 
the  advance  line  of  the  attack  where  it  had 
penetrated  about  four  hundred  yards  into  the 
wood.  But  it  was  well  into  afternoon  before 
he  sufficiently  woke  to  his  surroundings  to 
understand  where  he  was  or  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  when  he  did  so  he  found  the  real- 
isation sufficiently  unpleasant.  It  was  plain 
from  several  indications — the  direction  from 
which  the  shells  bursting  in  his  vicinity  were 
coming,  a  glimpse  of  some  wounded  Germans 
retiring,  the  echoing  rattle  of  rifle  fire  and 
crash  of  bombs  behind  him — that  the  bat- 
talion had  been  driven  back,  as  half  a  dozen 
other  battalions  had  been  driven  back  in  the 
course  of  the  ebb-and-flow  fighting  through 
the  wood  for  a  couple  of  weeks  past,  that  he 

44 


IN  THE  WOOD  45 

was  lying  badly  wounded  and  helpless  to  de- 
fend himself  where  the  Germans  could  pick 
him  up  as  a  prisoner  or  finish  him  off  with 
a  saw-backed  bayonet  as  the  mood  of  his  dis- 
coverers turned.  His  left  leg  was  broken  be- 
low the  knee,  his  right  shoulder  and  ribs 
ached  intolerably,  a  scalp  wound  six  inches 
long  ran  across  his  head  from  side  to  side^- 
a  wound  that,  thanks  to  the  steel  shrapnel 
helmet  lying  dinted  in  deep  across  the  crown, 
had  not  split  his  head  open  to  the  teeth. 

He  felt,  as  he  put  it  to  himself,  ''done  in," 
so  utterly  done  in,  that  for  a  good  hour  he 
was  willing  to  let  it  go  at  that,  to  lie  still  and 
wait  whatever  luck  brought  him,  almost  in- 
different as  to  whether  it  would  be  another 
rush  that  would  advance  the  British  line  and 
bring  him  within  reach  of  his  own  stretcher- 
bearers,  or  his  discovery  by  some  of  the  Ger- 
man soldiers  who  passed  every  now  and  then 
close  to  where  he  lay. 

Thirst  drove  him  to  fumble  for  his  water- 
bottle,  only  to  find,  when  he  had  twisted  it 
round,  that  a  bullet  had  punctured  it,  and 
that  it  was  dry;  and,  after  fifteen  tortured 


46  FRONT  LINES 

minutes,  thirst  drove  him  to  the  impossible, 
and  brought  him  crawling  and  dragging  his 
broken  leg  to  a  dead  body  and  its  full  bottle. 
An  eager,  choking  swallow  and  a  long  breath- 
stopping,  gurgling  draught  gave  him  more 
life  than  he  had  ever  thought  to  feel  again, 
a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  against  the 
thought  of  waiting  helpless  there  to  be  picked 
up  and  carted  to  a  German  prison  camp  or 
butchered  where  he  lay,  a  quick  hope  and  a 
desperate  resolve  to  attempt  to  escape  such 
a  fate.  He  had  managed  to  crawl  to  the 
water-bottle;  he  would  attempt  to  crawl  at 
least  a  little  nearer  to  the  fighting  lines,  to 
where  he  would  have  more  chance  of  coming 
under  the  hands  of  his  own  men.  Without 
waste  of  time  he  took  hasty  stock  of  his 
wounds  and  set  about  preparing  for  his  at- 
tempt. The  broken  leg  was  the  most  seri- 
ously crippling,  but  with  puttees,  bayonets, 
and  trenching-tool  handles  he  so  splinted  and 
bound  it  about  that  he  felt  he  could  crawl 
and  drag  it  behind  him.  He  attempted  to 
bandage  his  head,  but  his  arm  and  shoulder 
were  so  stiff  and  painful  when  he  lifted  his 


IN  THE  WOOD  47 

hand  to  his  head  that  he  desisted  and  satis- 
fied himself  with  a  water-soaked  pad  placed 
inside  a  shrapnel  helmet.  Then  he  set  out  to 
crawl. 

It  is  hard  to  convey  to  anyone  who  has  not 
seen  such  a  place  the  horrible  difficulty  of  the 
task  the  Corporal  had  set  himself.  The 
wood  had  been  shelled  for  weeks,  until  al- 
most every  tree  in  it  had  been  smashed  and 
knocked  down  and  lay  in  a  wild  tangle  of 
trunks,  tops,  and  branches  on  the  ground. 
The  ground  itself  was  pitted  with  big  and 
little  shell-holes,  seamed  with  deep  trenches, 
littered  with  whole  and  broken  arms  and 
equipments,  German  and  British  grenades 
and  bombs,  scattered  thick  with  British  and 
German  dead  who  had  lain  there  for  any  time 
from  hours  to  weeks.  And  into  and  over  it 
all  the  shells  were  still  crashing  and  roaring. 
The  air  palpitated  to  their  savage  rushing, 
the  ground  trembled  to  the  impact  of  their 
fall,  and  without  pause  or  break  the  deep  roll 
of  the  drumming  gun-fire  bellowed  and  thun- 
dered. But  through  all  the  chaos  men  were 
still  fighting,  and  would  continue  to  fight,  and 


48  FRONT  LINES 

the  Corporal  had  set  his  mind  doggedly  to 
come  somewhere  near  to  where  they  fought. 
The  penetration  of  such  a  jungle  might  have 
seemed  impossible  even  to  a  sound  and  unin- 
jured man;  to  one  in  his  plight  it  appeared 
mere  madness  to  attempt.  And  yet  to  at- 
tempt it  he  was  determined,  and  being  with- 
out any  other  idea  in  his  throbbing  head  but 
the  sole  one  of  overcoming  each  obstacle  as 
he  came  to  it,  had  no  time  to  consider  the 
impossibility  of  the  complete  task. 

Now,  two  hundred  yards  is  a  short  dis- 
stance  as  measurement  goes,  but  into  those 
two  hundred  yards  through  the  chaos  of 
wrecked  wood  the  Corporal  packed  as  much 
suffering,  as  dragging  a  passage  of  time,  as 
many  tortures  of  hope  and  fear  and  pain,  as 
would  fill  an  ordinary  lifetime.  Every  yard 
was  a  desperate  struggle,  every  fallen  tree- 
trunk,  each  tangle  of  fallen  branch,  was  a 
cruel  problem  to  be  solved,  a  pain-racked  and 
laborious  effort  to  overcome.  A  score  of 
times  he  collapsed  and  lay  panting,  and  re- 
signed himself  to  abandoning  the  struggle; 
and  a  score  of  times  he  roused  himself  and 


IN  THE  WOOD  49 

fought  down  numbing  pain,  and  raised  him- 
self on  trembling  arms  and  knees  to  crawl 
again,  to  wriggle  through  the  wreckage,  to 
hoist  himself  over  some  obstacle,  to  fight  his 
way  on  for  another  yard  or  two. 

Every  conscious  thought  was  busied  only 
and  solely  with  the  problems  of  his  passage 
that  presented  themselves  one  by  one,  but  at 
the  back  of  his  mind  some  self-working  rea- 
son or  instinct  held  him  to  his  direction,  took 
heed  of  what  went  on  around  him,  guided 
him  in  action  other  than  that  immediately 
concerned  with  his  passage.  When,  for  in- 
stance, he  came  to  a  deep  trench  cutting 
across  his  path,  he  sat  long  with  his  whole 
mind  occupied  on  the  question  as  to  whether 
he  should  move  to  right  or  left,  whether 
the  broken  place  half  a  dozen  yards  off  the 
one  way  or  the  more  completely  broken  one 
a  dozen  yards  the  other  would  be  the  best  to 
make  for,  scanning  this  way  down  and  that 
way  up,  a  litter  of  barbed  wire  here  and  a 
barrier  of  broken  branches  there;  and  yet, 
without  even  lifting  his  mind  from  the  prob- 
lem, he  was  aware  of  grey  coats  moving  along 


50  FRONT  LINES 

the  trencli  towards  Mm,  had  sense  enough  to 
drop  flat  and  lie  huddled  and  still  until  the 
Germans  had  passed.  And  that  second  mind 
again  advised  him  against  crawling  down 
into  the  trench  and  making  his  easier  way 
along  it,  because  it  was  too  probable  it  would 
be  in  use  as  a  passage  for  Germans,  wounded 
and  unwounded. 

He  turned  and  moved  slowly  along  the  edge 
of  the  trench  at  last,  and  held  to  it  for  some 
distance,  because  the  parapet  raised  along 
its  edge  held  up  many  of  the  fallen  trees  and 
branches  enough  to  let  him  creep  under  them. 
That  advantage  was  discounted  to  some  ex- 
tent by  the  number  of  dead  bodies  that  lay 
heaped  on  or  under  the  parapet  and  told  of 
the  struggles  and  the  fierce  fighting  that  had 
passed  for  possession  of  the  trench,  but  on 
the  whole  the  dead  men  were  less  difficult  to 
pass  than  the  clutching,  wrenching  fingers  of 
the  dead  wood.  The  pains  in  his  head,  shoul- 
der, and  side  had  by  now  dulled  down  to  a 
dead  numbness,  but  his  broken  leg  never 
ceased  to  burn  and  stab  with  red-hot  needles 
of  agony;  and  for  all  the  splints  encasing  it 


IN  THE  WOOD  51 

and  despite  all  the  care  he  took,  there  was 
hardly  a  yard  of  his  passage  that  was  not 
marked  by  some  wrenching  catch  on  his  foot, 
some  jarring  shock  or  grind  and  grate  of  the 
broken  bones. 

He  lost  count  of  time,  he  lost  count  of  dis- 
tance, but  he  kept  on  crawling.  He  was  ut- 
terly indifferent  to  the  turmoil  of  the  guns, 
to  the  rush  and  yell  of  the  near-falling  shells, 
the  crash  of  their  bursts,  the  whirr  of  the 
flying  splinters.  When  he  had  been  well  and 
whole  these  things  would  have  brought  his 
heart  to  his  mouth,  would  have  set  him  duck- 
ing and  dodging  and  shrinking.  Now  he  paid 
them  no  fraction  of  his  absorbed  attention. 
But  to  the  distinctive  and  rising  sounds  of 
bursting  grenades,  to  the  sharp  whip  and 
whistle  of  rifle  bullets  about  him  and  through 
the  leaves  and  twigs,  he  gave  eager  attention 
because  they  told  him  he  was  nearing  his 
goal,  was  coming  at  last  to  somewhere  near 
the  fringe  of  the  fighting.  His  limbs  were 
trembling  under  him,  he  was  throbbing  with 
pain  from  head  to  foot,  his  head  was  swim- 
ming and  his  vision  was  blurred  and  dim,  and 


52  FRONT  LINES 

at  last  he  was  forced  to  drop  and  lie  still  and 
jSght  to  recover  strength  to  move,  and  sense 
to  direct  his  strength.  His  mind  cleared 
slowly,  and  he  saw  at  last  that  he  had  come 
to  a  slightly  clearer  part  of  the  wood,  to  a 
portion  nearer  its  edge  where  the  trees  had 
thinned  a  little  and  where  the  full  force  of 
the  shell  blast  had  wrecked  and  re-wrecked 
and  torn  fallen  trunks  and  branches  to  frag- 
ments. 

But  although  his  mind  had  recovered,  his 
body  had  not.  He  found  he  could  barely  raise 
himself  on  his  shaking  arms — had  not  the 
strength  to  crawl  another  yard.  He  tried  and 
tried  again,  moved  no  more  than  bare  inches, 
and  had  to  drop  motionless  again. 

And  there  he  lay  and  watched  a  fresh  at- 
tack launched  by  the  British  into  the  wood, 
heard  and  saw  the  tornado  of  shell-fire  that 
poured  crashing  and  rending  and  shattering 
into  the  trees,  watched  the  khaki  figures 
swarm  forward  through  the  smoke,  the  spit- 
ting flames  of  the  rifles,  the  spurting  fire  and 
smoke  of  the  flung  grenades.  He  still  lay  on 
the  edge  of  the  broken  trench  along  which  he 


IN  THE  WOOD  53 

had  crept,  and  he  could  just  make  out  that 
this  ran  off  at  an  angle  away  from  him  and 
that  it  was  held  by  the  Germans,  and  formed 
probably  the  point  of  the  British  attack.  He 
watched  the  attack  with  consuming  eager- 
ness, hope  flaming  high  as  he  saw  the  khaki 
line  press  forward,  sinking  again  to  leaden 
depths  as  it  halted  or  held  or  swayed  back. 
To  him  the  attack  was  an  affair  much  more 
vital  than  the  taking  of  the  trench,  the  ad- 
vance by  a  few  score  yards  of  the  British  line. 
To  him  it  meant  that  a  successful  advance 
would  bring  him  again  within  the  British 
lines,  its  failure  leave  him  still  within  the 
German. 

Into  the  trench  below  him  a  knot  of  Ger- 
mans scrambled  scuffling,  and  he  lay  huddled 
there  almost  within  arm's  length  of  them 
while  they  hoisted  a  couple  of  machine-guns 
to  the  edge  of  the  trench  and  manned  the  par- 
apet and  opened  a  hail  of  fire  down  the 
length  of  the  struggling  British  line.  Under 
that  streaming  fire  the  line  wilted  and  with- 
ered; a  fresh  torrent  of  fire  smote  it,  and  it 
crumpled  and  gave  and   ebbed  back.     But 


54  FRONT  LINES 

almost  immediately  another  line  swarmed  up 
out  of  the  smoke  and  swept  forward,  and  this 
time,  although  the  same  flank  and  frontal  fire 
caught  and  smote  it,  the  line  straggled  and 
swayed  forward  and  plunged  into  and  over 
the  German  trench. 

The  Corporal  lying  there  on  the  trench  edge 
was  suddenly  aware  of  a  stir  amongst  the 
men  below  him.  The  edge  where  he  lay  half 
screened  in  a  debris  of  green  stuff  and  hud- 
dled beside  a  couple  of  dead  Germans  was 
broken  down  enough  to  let  him  see  well  into 
the  trench,  and  he  understood  to  the  full  the 
meaning  of  the  movements  of  the  Germans 
in  the  trench,  of  their  hasty  hauling  down  of 
the  machine-guns,  their  scrambling  retire- 
ment crouched  and  hurrying  along  the  trench 
back  in  the  direction  from  which  he  had  come. 
The  trench  the  British  had  taken  ran  out  at 
a  right  angle  from  this  one  where  he  lay, 
and  the  Germans  near  him  were  retiring  be- 
hind the  line  of  trench  that  had  been  taken. 
And  that  meant  he  was  as  good  as  saved. 

A  minute  later  two  khaki  figures  emerged 
from   a   torn   thicket    of   tree    stumps    and 


IN  THE  WOOD  55 

branches  a  dozen  yards  beyond  the  trench 
where  he  lay,  and  ran  on  across  towards  the 
denser  wood  into  which  the  Germans  had 
retreated.  One  was  an  officer,  and  close  on 
their  heels  came  half  a  dozen,  a  dozen,  a 
score  of  men,  all  following  close  and  pressing 
on  to  the  wood  and  opening  out  as  they  went. 
One  came  to  the  edge  of  the  trench  where  the 
machine-guns  had  been,  and  the  Corporal 
with  an  effort  lifted  and  waved  an  arm  and 
shouted  hoarsely  to  him.  But  even  as  he  did 
so  he  realised  how  futile  his  shout  was,  how 
impossible  it  was  for  it  to  carry  even  the  few 
yards  in  the  pandemonium  of  noise  that  raved 
about  them.  But  he  shouted  again,  and  yet 
again,  and  felt  bitter  disappointment  as  the 
man  without  noticing  turned  and  moved  along 
the  trench,  peering  down  into  it. 

The  Corporal  had  a  sudden  sense  of  some- 
one moving  behind  him,  and  twisted  round  in 
time  to  see  another  khaki  figure  moving  past 
a  dozen  paces  away  and  the  upper  half  bodies 
of  half  a  score  more  struggling  through  the 
thickets  beyond.  This  time  he  screamed  at 
them,  but  they  too  passed,  unhearing  and 


56  FRONT  LINES 

unheeding.  The  Corporal  dropped  quivering 
and  trjdng  to  tell  himself  that  it  was  all  right, 
that  there  would  be  others  following,  that 
some  of  them  must  come  along  the  trench, 
that  the  stretcher-bearers  would  be  following 
close. 

But  for  the  moment  none  followed  them, 
and  from  where  they  had  vanished  came  a 
renewed  uproar  of  grenade-bursts  and  rifle 
fire  beating  out  and  through  the  uproar  of  the 
guns  and  the  screaming,  crashing  shells.  The 
Corporal  saw  a  couple  of  wounded  come  stag- 
gering back  .  .  .  the  tumult  of  near  fighting 
died  down  ...  a  line  of  German  grey-clad 
shoulders  and  bobbing  ''coal-scuttle"  helmets 
plunged  through  and  beyond  the  thicket  from 
which  the  khaki  had  emerged  a  few  minutes 
before.  And  then  back  into  the  trench  below 
him  scuffled  the  Germans  with  their  two 
machine-guns.  With  a  groan  the  Corporal 
dropped  his  face  in  the  dirt  and  dead  leaves 
and  groaned  hopelessly.  He  was  "done  in," 
he  told  himself,  "clean  done  in."  He  could 
see  no  chance  of  escape.  The  line  had  been 
driven  back,  and  the  last  ounce  of  strength  to 


IN  THE  WOOD  57 

crawl.  .  .  .  He  tried  once  before  he  would 
finally  admit  that  last  ounce  gone,  but  the 
effort  was  too  much  for  his  exhausted  limbs 
and  pain-wrenched  body.  He  dropped  to  the 
ground  again. 

The  rapid  clatter  of  the  two  machine-guns 
close  to  him  lifted  his  head  to  watch.  The 
main  German  trench  was  spouting  dust  and 
debris,  flying  clouds  of  leaves,  flashing  white 
slivers  of  bark  and  wood,  under  the  torrent  of 
shells  that  poured  on  it  once  more.  The 
machine-guns  below  him  ceased,  and  the 
Corporal  concluded  that  their  target  had  gone 
for  the  moment.  But  that  intense  bombard- 
ment of  the  trench  almost  certainly  meant 
the  launching  of  another  British  attack,  and 
then  the  machine-guns  would  find  their  target 
struggling  again  across  their  sights  and  un- 
der their  streaming  fire.  They  had  a  good 
''field  of  fire,"  too,  as  the  Corporal  could 
see.  The  British  line  had  to  advance  for  the 
most  part  through  the  waist-high  tangle  of 
wrecked  wood,  but  by  chance  or  design  a 
clearer  patch  of  ground  was  swept  close  to 
the    German   trench,    and    as   the    advance 


58  FRONT  LINES 

crossed  this  the  two  machine-gnns  on  the 
flank  near  the  Corporal  would  get  in  their 
work,  would  sweep  it  in  enfilade,  would  be 
probably  the  worst  obstacle  to  the  advance. 
And  at  that  a  riot  of  thoughts  swept  the 
Corporal's  mind.  If  he  could  out  those 
machine-guns  ...  if  he  could  out  those 
machine-guns  .  .  .  but  how?  There  were 
plenty  of  rifles  near,  and  plenty  of  dead  about 
with  cartridges  on  them  .  .  .  but  one  shot 
would  bring  the  Germans  jumping  from  their 
trench  on  him.  .  .  .  Bombs  now  ...  if  he 
had  some  Mills '  grenades  .  .  .  where  had  he 
seen.  .  .  . 

He  steadied  himself  deliberately  and 
thought  back.  The  whole  wood  was  littered 
with  grenades,  spilt  and  scattered  broadcast 
singly  and  in  heaps — German  stick-grenades 
and  Mills'.  He  remembered  crawling  past  a 
dead  bomber  with  a  bag  full  of  Mills'  beside 
him  only  a  score  of  yards  away.  Could  he 
crawl  to  them  and  back  again  1  The  Germans 
in  the  trench  might  see  him;  and  anyhow — 
hadn't  he  tried?  And  hadn't  he  found  the 
last  ounce  of  his  strength  gone  ? 


IN  THE  WOOD  59 

But  lie  found  another  last  ounce.  He  half 
crawled,  half  dragged  himself  back  and  found 
his  bag  of  grenades,  and  with  the  full  bag 
hooked  over  his  shoulder  and  a  grenade 
clutched  ready  in  his  hand  felt  himself  a  new 
man.  His  strength  was  gone,  but  it  takes 
little  strength  to  pull  the  pin  of  a  grenade, 
and  if  any  German  rushed  him  now,  at  least 
they'd  go  together. 

The  machine-guns  broke  out  again,  and  the 
Corporal,  gasping  and  straining,  struggled 
foot  by  foot  back  towards  them.  The  per- 
sonal side — the  question  of  his  own  situation 
and  chances  of  escape — had  left  him.  He  had 
forgotten  himself.  His  whole  mind  was 
centered  on  the  attack,  on  the  effect  of  those 
machine-guns'  fire,  on  the  taking  of  the  Ger- 
man trench.  He  struggled  past  the  break  in 
the  trench  and  on  until  he  had  shelter  behind 
the  low  parapet.  He  wanted  some  cover. 
One  grenade  wasn't  enough.  He  wanted  to 
make  sure,  and  he  wouldn't  chance  a  splinter 
from  his  own  bomb. 

The  machine-guns  were  chattering  and 
clattering  at  top  speed,  and  as  he  pulled  the 


60  FRONT  LINES 

pin  of  his  first  grenade  the  Corporal  saw 
another  gun  being  dragged  up  beside  the 
others.  He  held  his  grenade  and  counted 
' '  one-and-two-SLTid-throw — "  and  lobbed  the 
grenade  over  into  the  trench  under  the  very- 
feet  of  the  machine-gunners.  He  hastily 
pulled  another  pin  and  threw  the  grenade 
.  .  .  and  as  a  spurt  of  smoke  and  dust  leaped 
from  the  trench  before  him  and  the  first 
grenades  crash-crashed,  he  went  on  pulling 
out  the  pins  and  flinging  over  others  as  fast 
as  he  could  pitch.  The  trench  spouted  fire 
and  dust  and  flying  dirt  and  debris,  the 
ground  shook  beneath  him,  he  was  half 
stunned  with  the  quick-following  reports — 
but  the  machine-guns  had  stopped  on  the 
first  burst. 

That  was  all  he  remembered.  This  time 
the  last  ounce  was  really  gone,  and  he  was 
practically  unconscious  when  the  stretcher- 
bearers  found  him  after  the  trench  was  taken 
and  the  attack  had  passed  on  deep  into  the 
wood. 

And  weeks  after,  lying  snug  in  bed  in  a 
London  hospital,  after  a  Sister  had  scolded 


IN  THE  WOOD  61 

him  for  moving  in  bed  and  reaching  out  for 
a  magazine  that  had  dropped  to  the  floor,  and 
told  him  how  urgent  it  was  that  he  must  not 
move,  and  how  a  fractured  leg  like  his  must 
be  treated  gently  and  carefully  if  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  a  cripple  for  life,  and  so  on  and  so 
forth,  he  grinned  up  cheerfully  at  her.  * '  Or- 
right,  Sister."  he  said,  ''I'll  remember.  But 
it's  a  good  job  for  me  I  didn't  know  all  that, 
back  there — in  the  wood." 


IV 

THE  DIVING  TANK 

His  Majesty's  land-ship  Hotstuff  was  busy 
rebunkering  and  refilling  ammunition  in  a 
nicely  secluded  spot  under  the  lee  of  a  cluster 
of  jagged  stumps  that  had  once  been  trees, 
while  her  Skipper  walked  round  her  and  made 
a  careful  examination  of  her  skin.  She  bore, 
on  her  blunt  bows  especially,  the  marks  of 
many  bullet  splashes  and  stars  and  scars,  and 
on  her  starboard  gun  turret  a  couple  of 
blackened  patches  of  blistered  paint  where  a 
persistent  Hun  had  tried  his  ineffectual  best 
to  bomb  the  good  ship  at  close  quarters,  with- 
out any  further  result  than  the  burnt  paint 
and  a  series  of  bullet  holes  in  the  bomber. 

As  the  Skipper  finished  his  examination, 
finding  neither  crack,  dent,  nor  damage  to 
anything  deeper  than  the  paintwork,  "All 
complete"  was  reported  to  him,  and  he  and 
his  crew  proceeded  to  dine  otf  bully  beef,  bis- 

62 


THE  DIVING  TANK  63 

cuits,  and  uncooked  prunes.  The  meal  was 
interrupted  by  a  motor-cyclist,  who  had  to 
leave  his  cycle  on  the  roadside  and  plough 
on  foot  through  the  sticky  mud  to  the  Hot- 
stuff's  anchorage,  with  a  written  message. 
The  Skipper  read  the  message,  initialled  the 
envelope  as  a  receipt,  and,  meditatively  chew- 
ing on  a  dry  prune,  carefully  consulted  a 
squared  map  criss-crossed  and  wriggled  over 
by  a  maze  of  heavy  red  lines  that  marked  the 
German  trenches,  and  pricked  off  a  course  to 
where  a  closer-packed  maze  of  lines  was 
named  as  a  Kedoubt. 

The  Signals  dispatch-rider  had  approached 
the  crew  with  an  enormous  curiosity  and  a 
deep  desire  to  improve  his  mind  and  his 
knowledge  on  the  subject  of  *' Tanks."  But 
although  the  copybook  maxims  have  always 
encouraged  the  improvement  of  one's  mind, 
the  crew  of  the  Hotstuff  preferred  to  re- 
member another  copybook  dictum, ' '  Silence  is 
golden,"  and  with  the  warnings  of  many 
months  soaked  into  their  very  marrows,  and 
with  a  cautious  secrecy  that  by  now  had  be- 
come second,  if  not  first,  nature  to  them,  re- 


64  FRONT  LINES 

turned  answers  more  bafifling  in  their  fullness 
than  the  deepest  silence  would  have  been. 

"Is  it  true  that  them  things  will  turn  a 
point-blank  bullet?"  asked  the  dispatch- rider. 

**Turn  them  is  just  the  right  word, 
Signals, ' '  said  the  spokesman.  ' '  The  armour 
plating  doesn't  stop  'em,  you  see.  They  go 
through,  and  then  by  an  m-genious  arrange- 
ment of  slanted  steel  Venetian  shutters  just 
inside  the  skin,  the  bullets  are  turned,  rico 
up'ard  on  to  another  set  o'  shutters,  deflect 
again  out'ards  an'  away.  So  every  bullet 
that  hits  us  returns  to  the  shooters,  with 
slightly  decreased  velocity  nat 'rally,  but  suf- 
ficient penetratin'  power  to  kill  at  cow-sider- 
able  range." 

Signals  stared  at  him  suspiciously,  but  he 
was  so  utterly  solemn  and  there  was  such  an 
entire  absence  of  a  twinkling  eye  or  ghostly 
smile  amongst  the  biscuit-munchers  that  he 
was  puzzled. 

"An'  I  hear  they  can  go  over  almost 
anythin'- trenches,  an'  barbed  wire,  an'  shell- 
holes,  an'  such-like?"  he  said  interrogatively. 

*' Almost  anything,"  repeated  the  spokes- 


THE  DIVING  TANK  65 

man,  with  just  a  shade  of  indignation  in  his 
tone.  ' '  She 's  built  to  go  over  anything  with- 
out any  almost  about  it.  Why,  this  mornin ', ' ' 
he  turned  to  the  crew,  "what  was  the  name  o' 
that  place  wi'  the  twelve-foot  solid  stone  wall 
round  it?  You  know,  about  eleven,  miles 
behind  the  German  lines. ' ' 

''Eleven  miles?"  said  the  Signaller  in 
accents  struggling  between  doubt  and 
incredulity. 

** About  that,  accordin'  to  the  map,'*  said 
the  other.  ''That's  about  our  average 
cruise. ' ' 

"But — but,"  objected  the  Signaller,  "how 
wasn't  you  cut  off — surrounded — er " 

"Cut  off,"  said  the  Hotstuff  cheerfully, 
"why,  of  course,  we  was  surrounded,  and  cut 
off.  But  what  good  was  that  to  'em?  You've 
seen  some  of  us  walkin'  up  an'  over  their 
front  lines,  and  them  shootin'  shells  an'  rifles 
an'  Maxims  at  us.  But  they  didn't  stop  us, 
did  they?  So  how  d'you  suppose  they  stop 
us  comin'  back?  But  about  that  wall,"  he 
went  on,  having  reduced  the  Signaller  to  pon- 
dering silence.    ' '  We  tried  to  butt  through  it 


66  FRONT  LINES 

an'  couldn't,  so  we  coupled  on  the  grapplin'- 
hook  bands,  an'  walked  straight  up  one  side 
an'  down  the  other." 

''Yes,"  put  in  one  of  the  other  Hotstuffs, 
*'an'  doin'  it  the  boxful  o'  tea  an'  sugar  that 
was  up  in  the  front  locker  fell  away  when  she 
upended  and  tumbled  down  to  the  other  end. 
Spilt  every  blessed  grain  we  had.  I  don't 
hold  wi'  that  straight-up-and-down  manoover 
myself. ' ' 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  first  man,  "I  don't 
know  as  it  was  worse  than  when  we  was  bein' 
towed  across  the  Channel.  She  makes  a 
rotten  bad  sea  boat,  I  must  confess." 

"Towed  across?"  said  the  startled  Signal- 
ler.   "You  don't  mean  to  say  she  floats?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  the  Hotstuff 
simply.  "Though,  mind  you,  we're  not  de- 
signed for  long  voyages  under  our  own 
power.  The  whole  hull  is  a  watertight  tank — 
wi'  longtitoodinal  an'  transverse  bulkheads, 
an'  we've  an  adjustable  screw  propeller.  I 
dunno  as  I  ought  to  be  talkin'  about  that, 
though,"  and  he  sank  his  voice  and  glanced 
cautiously  round  at  the  Skipper  folding  up 


THE  DIVING  TANK  67 

his  map.  "Don't  breathe  a  word  o'  it  to  a 
soul,  or  I  miglit  get  into  trouble.  It's  a  little 
surprise,"  he  concluded  hurriedly,  as  he  saw 
the  Skipper  rise,  ''that  we're  savin'  up  for 
the  Hun  when  we  gets  to  the  Ehine.  He 
reckons  the  Rhine  is  goin'  to  hold  us  up,  don't 
he?  Wait  till  he  sees  the  Tanks  swim  it  an' 
walk  up  the  cliffs  on  the  other  side. '  * 

The  Skipper  gave  a  few  quiet  orders  and 
the  crew  vanished,  crawling,  and  one  by  one, 
into  a  little  man-hole.  The  Signaller's  in- 
formant found  time  for  a  last  word  to  him  in 
passing.  *'I  b'lieve  we're  takin'  a  turn  down 
across  the  river  an '  canal, ' '  he  said.  ' '  If  you 
follow  us  you'll  most  likely  see  us  do  a  prac- 
tice swim  or  two." 

''Well,  I've  met  some  dandy  liars  in  my 
time,"  the  Signaller  murmured  to  himself, 
"but  that  chap's  about  IT." 

But  he  stayed  to  watch  the  Tank  get  under 
way,  and  after  watching  her  performance  and 
course  for  a  few  hundred  yards  he  returned  to 
his  motor-bike  with  struggling  doubts  in  his 
own  mind  as  to  how  and  in  which  direction  he 


68  FRONT  LINES 

was  likely  to  be  the  bigger  fool — in  believing 
or  in  refusing  to  believe. 

The  Hotstuff  snorted  once  or  twice,  shook 
herself,  and  rumbled  internally;  her  wheel- 
bands  made  a  slow  revolution  or  two,  churn- 
ing out  a  barrowload  or  so  of  soft  mud,  and 
bit  through  the  loose  upper  soil  into  the 
firmer  ground;  she  jerk-jerked  convulsively 
two  or  three  times,  crawled  out  of  the  deep 
wheel-ruts  she  had  dug,  turned,  nosing  a  cau- 
tious way  between  the  bigger  shell  craters, 
and  then  ploughed  off  on  a  straight  course 
towards  the  road  across  the  sticky  mud — ^mud 
which  the  dispatch-rider  had  utterly  failed  to 
negotiate,  and  which,  being  impassable  to  him, 
he  had,  out  of  the  knowledge  born  of  long 
experience,  concluded  impassable  to  anything, 
light  or  heavy,  that  ran  on  wheels.  A  wide 
ditch  lay  between  the  field  and  the  road,  but 
the  Hotstuff  steered  straight  for  it  and 
crawled  tranquilly  across.  The  dispatch-rider 
watched  the  progress  across  the  mud  with 
great  interest,  whistled  softly  as  he  saw  the 
Tank  breast  the  ditch  and  reach  out  for  the 
far  bank,  with  her  fore-end  and  nearly  half 


THE  DIVING  TANK  69 

her  length  hanging  clear  out  over  the  water, 
gasped  as  the  bows  dipped  and  fell  down- 
ward, her  fore-feet  clutching  at  and  resting 
on  the  further  bank,  her  bows  and  under-body 
— the  descriptive  terms  are  rather  mixed,  but 
then,  so  is  the  name  and  make-up  of  a  Land 
Ship — hitting  the  water  with  a  mighty  splash. 
And  then,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  broke  from 
wide  grins  into  open  laughter  as  the  Hotstuff 
got  a  grip  of  the  far  bank,  pushed  with  her 
hind  and  pulled  with  her  fore  legs  and 
dragged  herself  across.  If  ever  you  have 
seen  a  fat  caterpillar  perched  on  a  cabbage 
leaf's  edge,  straining  and  reaching  out  with 
its  front  feet  to  reach  another  leaf,  touching 
it,  catching  hold,  and  letting  go  astern,  to 
pull  over  the  gap,  you  have  a  very  fair  idea 
of  what  the  Hotstuff  looked  like  crossing  that 
ditch. 

She  wheeled  on  to  the  road,  and  as  the  dis- 
patch-rider, with  mingled  awe,  amazement, 
and  admiration,  watched  her  lumbering  off 
down  it  he  saw  an  oil-blackened  hand  poked 
out  through  a  gun  port  and  waggled  trium- 
phantly back  at  him.    *' Damme,"  he  said,  **I 


70  FRONT  LINES 

believe  she  can  swim,  or  stand  on  her  head, 
or  eat  peas  off  a  knife.  She  looks  human- 
intelligent  enough  for  anything." 

But  the  Hotstuff  on  that  particular  trip  was 
to  display  little  enough  intelligence,  but  in- 
stead an  almost  human  perversity,  adding 
nothing  to  her  battle  honours  but  very  much 
to  her  skipper's  and  crew's  already  over- 
crowded vocabulary  of  strong  language. 
The  engineer  showed  signs  of  uneasiness  as 
she  trundled  down  the  road,  cocking  his  head 
to  one  side  and  listening  with  a  look  of 
strained  attention,  stooping  his  ear  to  various 
parts  of  the  engines,  squinting  along  rods, 
touching  his  finger-tips  to  different  bearings. 

"What's  wrong!"  asked  the  Skipper. 
"Isn't  she  behaving  herself?" 

The  engineer  shook  his  head.  "There's 
something  not  exactly  right  wi '  her, ' '  he  said 
slowly.  "I  doubt  she's  going  to  give  trou- 
ble." 

He  was  right.  She  gave  trouble  for  one 
slow  mile,  more  trouble  for  another  half- 
mile,  and  then  most  trouble  of  all  at  a  spot 
where  the  road  had  degenerated  into  a  sea 


THE  DIVING  TANK  71 

of  thin,  porridgy  mud.  We  will  say  nothing 
of  the  technical  trouble,  but  it  took  four  solid 
hours  to  get  the  Hotstuff  under  way  again. 
The  road  where  she  halted  was  a  main  thor- 
oughfare to  the  firing  line,  and  the  locality 
of  her  break-down,  fortunately  for  the  traffic, 
was  where  a  horse  watering  trough  stood  a 
hundred  yards  back  from  the  road,  and  there 
was  ample  room  to  deflect  other  vehicles  past 
the  Hotstuff  obstacle,  which  lay  right  in  the 
fair-way.  All  the  four  hours  a  procession  of 
motor-cars  and  lorries,  G.S.  waggons,  and 
troops  of  horses  streamed  by  to  right  and  left 
of  the  helpless  Hotstuff.  The  cars  squirted 
jets  of  liquid  mud  on  her  as  they  splashed 
past,  the  lorries  flung  it  in  great  gouts  at 
her,  the  waggons  plastered  her  lower  body 
liberally,  and  the  horses  going  to  and  from 
water  raised  objections  to  her  appearance 
and  spattered  a  quite  astonishing  amount  of 
mud  over  her  as  high  as  her  roof. 

When  finally  she  got  her  engines  running 
and  pulled  out  of  the  quagmire,  it  was  too 
late  to  attempt  to  get  her  up  into  the  ac- 
tion she  had  been  called  to,  so  her  bows  were 


72  FRONT  LINES 

turned  back  to  her  anchorage  and  she  plodded 
off  home.  And  by  the  luck  of  war,  and  his 
volunteering  out  of  turn  for  the  trip,  the  same 
dispatch-rider  brought  another  message  to 
her  early  next  morning  in  her  berth  behind 
the  line. 

The  crew's  night  had  been  spent  on  in- 
ternal affairs,  and,  since  there  had  been  no 
time  to  attempt  to  remove  any  of  the  accu- 
mulation of  mud  that  covered  every  visible 
inch  of  her,  she  looked  like  a  gigantic  wet 
clay  antheap. 

The  dispatch-rider  stared  at  her. 

"Looks  as  if  she  wanted  her  face  washed," 
he  remarked.  ''What  has  she  been  up  to? 
Thought  you  said  she  was  going  swimming. 
She  don't  look  much  as  if  she'd  had  a  bath 
lately." 

His  former  glib  informant  slowly  straight- 
ened a  weary  back,  checked  a  tart  reply,  and 
instead  spoke  with  an  excellent  simulation 
of  cheeriness. 

''Didn't  you  come  an'  watch  us  yesterday, 
then ? "  he  said.  ' '  Well,  you  missed  a  treat — 
brand-new  dodge  our  Old  Man  has  invented 


THE  DIVING  TANK  73 

Msself.  When  we  got  'er  in  the  canal,  we 
closed  all  ports,  elevated  our  periscope  an' 
new  telescopic  air-toob,  submerged,  and  sank 
to  the  bottom.  And  she  walked  four  meas- 
ured miles  under  water  along  the  bottom  o' 
the  canal.  That" — and  he  waved  his  hand 
towards  the  mud-hidden  Hotstuff — ' '  is  where 
she  got  all  the  mud  from." 

And  to  this  day  that  dispatch-rider  doesn't 
know  whether  he  told  a  gorgeous  truth  or  a 
still  more  gorgeous  lie. 


IN  THE  MIST 

When  the  Lieutenant  turned  out  of  his  dug- 
out in  the  very  small  hours,  he  found  with 
satisfaction  that  a  thin  mist  was  hanging  over 
the  ground. 

''Can't  see  much,"  he  said  half  an  hour 
later,  peering  out  from  the  front  trench. 
''But  so  much  the  better.  Means  they  won't 
be  so  likely  to  see  us.  So  long,  old  man. 
Come  along,  Studd." 

The  other  officer  watched  the  two  crawl  out 
and  vanish  into  the  misty  darkness.  At  in- 
tervals a  flare  light  leaped  upward  from  one 
side  or  the  other,  but  it  revealed  nothing  of 
the  ground,  showed  only  a  dim  radiance  in 
the  mist  and  vanished.  Rifles  crackled  spas- 
modically up  and  down  the  unseen  line,  and 
very  occasionally  a  gun  boomed  a  smothered 
report  and  a  shell  swooshed  over.  But,  on  the 

whole,  the  night  was  quiet,  or  might  be  called 

74 


IN  THE  MIST  75 

so  by  comparison  with  other  nights,  and  the 
quietness  lent  colour  to  the  belief  that  the 
Hun  was  quietly  evacuating  his  badly  battered 
front  line.  It  was  to  discover  what  truth  was 
in  the  report  that  the  Lieutenant  had  crawled 
out  with  one  man  to  get  as  near  as  possible 
to  the  enemy  trench — or,  still  better,  into  or 
over  it. 

Fifty  yards  out  the  two  ran  into  one  of  their 
own  listening  posts,  and  the  Lieutenant  halted 
a  moment  and  held  a  whispered  talk  with  the 
N.C.O.  there.  It  was  all  quiet  in  front,  he 
was  told,  no  sound  of  movement  and  only  a 
rifle  shot  or  a  light  thrown  at  long  intervals. 

"Might  mean  anything,  or  nothing," 
thought  the  Lieutenant.  ''Either  a  trench 
full  of  Boche  taking  a  chance  to  sleep,  or  a 
trench  empty  except  for  a  'caretaker'  to 
shoot  or  chuck  up  an  odd  light  at  intervals. ' ' 

He  whispered  as  much  to  his  companion  and 
both  moved  carefully  on.  The  -ground  was 
riddled  with  shell-holes  and  was  soaking  wet, 
and  very  soon  the  two  were  saturated  and 
caked  with  sticky  mud.  Skirting  the  holes 
and  twisting  about  between  them  was  con- 


76  FRONT  LINES 

fusing  to  any  sense  of  direction,  but  the  two 
had  been  well  picked  for  this  special  work  and 
held  fairly  straight  on  their  way.  No  light 
had  shown  for  a  good  many  minutes,  and  the 
Lieutenant  fancied  that  the  mist  was  thick- 
ening. He  halted  and  waited  a  minute,  strain- 
ing his  eyes  into  the  mist  and  his  ears  to 
catch  any  sound.  There  was  nothing  appar- 
ently to  see  or  hear,  and  he  rose  to  his  knees 
and  moved  carefully  forward  again.  As  he 
did  so  a  flare  leaped  upward  with  a  long 
hiss  and  a  burst  of  light  glowed  out.  It 
faintly  illumined  the  ground  and  the  black 
shadows  of  shell-holes  about  them,  and — the 
Lieutenant  with  a  jump  at  his  heart  stilled 
and  stiffened — ^not  six  feet  away  and  straight 
in  front,  the  figure  of  a  man  in  a  long  grey 
coat,  his  head  craned  forward  and  resting 
on  his  arms  crossed  in  front  of  him  and 
twisted  in  an  attitude  of  listening.  Studd, 
crawling  at  the  Lieutenant's  heels,  saw  at 
the  same  moment,  as  was  told  by  his  hand 
gripped  and  pressing  a  warning  on  the  Lieu- 
tenant's leg.  The  light  died  out,  and  with 
infinite  caution  the  Lieutenant  slid  back  level 


IN  THE  MIST  77 

with  Studd  and,  motioning  him  to  follow, 
lay  flat  and  hitched  himself  a  foot  at  a  time 
towards  the  right  to  circle  round  the  re- 
cumbent German.  The  man  had  not  been 
facing  full  on  to  them,  but  lay  stretched 
and  looking  toward  their  left,  and  by  a  care- 
ful circling  right  the  Lieutenant  calculated 
he  would  clear  and  creep  behind  him.  A 
big  shell-crater  lay  in  their  path,  and  after 
a  moment's  hesitation  the  Lieutenant  slid 
very  quietly  down  into  it.  Some  morsels 
of  loose  earth  crumbled  under  him,  rolled 
down  and  fell  with  tiny  splashings  into  the 
pool  at  the  bottom.  To  the  Lieutenant  the 
noise  was  most  disconcertingly  loud  and 
alarming,  and  cursing  himself  for  a  fool  not 
to  have  thought  of  the  water  and  the  cer- 
tainty of  his  loosening  earth  to  fall  into  it, 
he  crouched  motionless,  listening  for  any 
sound  that  would  tell  of  the  listening  Ger- 
man's alarm. 

Another  light  rose,  filling  the  mist  with 
soft  white  radiance  and  outlining  the  edge 
of  the  crater  above  him.  It  outlined  also 
the  dark  shape  of  a  figure  halted  apparently 


78  FRONT  LINES 

in  the  very  act  of  crawling  down  into  the 
crater  from  the  opposite  side.  The  Lieuten- 
ant's first  flashing  thought  was  that  the  Ger- 
man watcher  had  heard  him  and  was  mov- 
ing to  investigate,  his  second  and  quick-fol- 
lowing was  of  another  German  holding  still 
until  the  light  fell.  But  a  third  idea  came 
so  instantly  on  the  other  two  that,  before  the 
soaring  flare  dropped,  he  had  time  to  move 
sharply,  bringing  the  man's  outline  more 
clearly  against  the  light.  That  look  and 
the  shape,  beside  but  clear  of  the  body,  of  a 
bent  leg,  crooked  knee  upward,  confirmed  his 
last  suspicion.  Studd  slid  over  soundless 
as  a  diving  otter  and  down  beside  him,  and 
the  Lieutenant  whispered,  ''See  those  two 
on  the  edge?" 

* '  Both  dead,  sir, ' '  said  Studd,  and  the  Lieu- 
tenant nodded  and  heaved  a  little  sigh  of 
relief.  "And  I  think  that  first  was  a  dead 
'un  too." 

"Yes,"  whispered  the  Lieutenant.  "Looked 
natural  and  listening  hard.  Remember  now, 
though,  he  was  bareheaded.  Dead  all  right. 
Come  on." 


IN  THE  MIST  79 

They  crept  out  past  the  two  dead  men,  and, 
abating  no  fraction  of  their  caution,  moved 
noiselessly  forward  again.  They  passed 
many  more  dead  in  the  next  score  of  yards, 
dead  twisted  and  contorted  to  every  possible 
and  impossible  attitude  of  unmistakable  death 
and  uncannily  life-like  postures,  and  came 
at  last  to  scattered  fragments  and  loose 
hanging  strands  of  barbed-wire  entangle- 
ments. Here,  according  to  previous  arrange- 
ments, Studd — ex-poacher  of  civilian  days 
and  expert  scout  of  the  battalion — moved 
ahead  and  led  the  way.  Broken  strands  of 
wire  he  lifted  with  gingerly  delicate  touch 
and  laid  aside.  Fixed  ones  he  raised,  rolled 
silently  under  and  held  up  for  the  Lieutenant 
to  pass.  Taut  ones  he  grasped  in  one  hand, 
slid  the  jaws  of  his  wire-nippers  over  and  cut 
silently  between  his  left-hand  fingers,  so  that 
the  fingers  still  gripped  the  severed  ends,  re- 
leased the  ends  carefully,  one  hand  to  each, 
and  squirmed  through  the  gap. 

There  was  very  little  uncut  wire,  but  the 
stealthy  movements  took  time,  and  half  an 
hour  had  passed  from  first  wire  to  last  and 


80  FRONT  LINES 

to  the  moment  when  the  Lieutenant,  in  imita- 
tion of  the  figure  before  him,  flattened  his 
body  close  to  the  muddy  ground  and  lay 
still  and  listening.  For  five  long  minutes 
they  lay,  and  then  Studd  twisted  his  head 
and  shoulders  back.  "Nobody,"  he  whis- 
pered. ' '  Just  wait  here  a  minute,  sir. ' '  He 
slipped  back  past  the  Lieutenant  and  al- 
most immediately  returned  to  his  side.  "  I  've 
cut  the  loose  wires  away,"  he  said.  "Mark 
this  spot  and  try'n  hit  it  if  we  have  to  bolt 
quick.  See — ^look  for  this,"  and  he  lifted 
a  bayoneted  rifle  lying  beside  them,  and 
stabbed  the  bayonet  down  into  the  ground 
with  the  rifle  butt  standing  up  above  the  edge 
of  the  broken  parapet. 

"Cross  the  trench,"  whispered  the  Lieu- 
tenant, "and  along  behind  it.  Safer  there. 
Any  sentry  looking  out  forward?" 

Studd  vanished  over  the  parapet  and  the 
Lieutenant  squirmed  after  him.  The  trench 
was  wide  and  broken-walled  back  and  front, 
and  both  clambered  up  the  other  side  and 
began  to  move  along  the  far  edge.  In  some 
places  the  trench  narrowed  and  deepened,  in 


IN  THE  MIST  81 

others  it  widened  and  shallowed  in  tumbled 
shell-craters,  in  others  again  was  almost 
obliterated  in  heaped  and  broken  earth.  The 
mist  had  closed  down  and  thickened  to  a 
white-grey  blanket,  and  the  two  moved  more 
freely,  standing  on  their  feet  and  walking 
stooped  and  ready  to  drop  at  a  sound.  They 
went  for  a  considerable  distance  without 
seeing  a  single  German. 

Studd  halted  suddenly  on  the  edge  of  a 
trench  which  ran  into  the  one  they  were 
following. 

"Communication  trench,"  said  the  Lieu- 
tenant softly.  ** Doesn't  seem  to  be  a  soul 
in  their  front  line." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Studd,  but  there  was  a 
puzzled  note  in  his  voice. 

"Is  this  their  front  line  we've  been  mov- 
ing along?"  said  the  Lieutenant  with  sudden 
suspicion.  "Those  lights  look  further  off 
than  they  ought." 

The  dim  lights  certainly  seemed  to  be  far 
out  on  their  left  and  a  little  behind  them. 
A  couple  of  rifles  cracked  faintly,  and  they 
heard  a  bullet  sigh  and  whimper  overhead. 


82  FRONT  LINES 

Closer  and  with  sharper  reports  half  a  dozen 
rifles  rap-rapped  in  answer — but  the  reports 
were  still  well  out  to  their  left  and  behind 
them. 

' '  Those  are  German  rifles  behind  us.  We  Ve 
left  the  front  line, ' '  said  the  Lieutenant  with 
sudden  conviction.  "Struck  slanting  back. 
Been  following  a  communication  trench. 
Damn!'^ 

Studd  without  answering  dropped  suddenly 
to  earth  and  without  hesitation  the  Lieuten- 
ant dropped  beside  him  and  flattened  down. 
A  long  silence,  and  the  question  trembling 
on  his  lips  was  broken  by  a  hasty  movement 
from  Studd.  ''Quick,  sir — back,"  he  said, 
and  hurriedly  wriggled  back  and  into  a  shal- 
low hole,  the  Lieutenant  close  after  him. 

There  was  no  need  of  the  question  now. 
Plainly  both  could  hear  the  squelch  of  feet, 
the  rustle  of  clothes,  the  squeak  and  click  of 
leather  and  equipment.  Slowly,  one  by  one, 
a  line  of  men  filed  past  their  hiding-place, 
looming  grey  and  shadowy  through  the  mist, 
stumbling  and  slipping  so  close  by  that  to 
the  Lieutenant  it  seemed  that  only  one  down- 


IN  THE  MIST  83 

ward  glance  from  one  passing  figure  was 
needed  to  discover  them.  Tumultuous 
thoughts  raced.  What  should  he  do  if  they 
were  discovered!  Pass  one  quick  word  to 
Studd  to  lie  still,  and  jump  and  run,  trusting 
to  draw  pursuit  after  himself  and  give  Studd 
a  chance  to  escape  and  report  ?  Or  call  Studd 
to  run  with  him,  and  both  chance  a  bolt  back 
the  way  they  came?  The  thick  mist  might 
help  them,  but  the  alarm  would  spread  quick- 
ly to  the  front  trench.  ...  Or  should  he 
snatch  his  revolver — he  wished  he  hadn't 
put  it  back  in  his  holster — blaze  off  all  his 
rounds,  yell  and  make  a  row,  rousing  the 
German  trench  to  fire  and  disclose  the 
strength  holding  it!  Could  he  risk  move- 
ment enough  to  get  his  revolver  clear!  And 
all  the  time  he  was  counting  the  figures 
that  stumbled  past — five  .  .  .  six  .  .  .  seven 
.  .  .  eight.  .  .  .  Thirty-four  he  counted  and 
then,  just  as  he  was  going  to  move,  another 
lagging  two.  After  that  and  a  long  pause  he 
held  hurried  consultation  with  Studd. 

"They're  moving  up   the   way  we   came 
down,"  lie  said.    "We're  right  off  the  front 


84  FRONT  LINES 

line.  Must  get  back.  Daren't  keep  too  close 
to  this  trench  though.  D'you  think  we  can 
strike  across  and  find  the  front  line  about 
where  we  crossed?" 

"Think  so,  sir,"  answered  Studd.  ''Must 
work  a  bit  left-handed." 

' '  Come  on  then.  Keep  close  together, ' '  and 
they  moved  off. 

In  three  minutes  the  Lieutenant  stopped 
with  a  smothered  curse  at  the  jar  of  wire 
caught  against  his  shins.  ''  'Ware  wire," 
he  said,  and  both  stooped  and  felt  at  it.  ' '  Nip- 
pers," he  said.  ''We  must  cut  through." 
He  pulled  his  own  nippers  out  and  they 
started  to  cut  a  path.  "Tang!"  his  nippers 
swinging  free  of  a  cut  wire  struck  against 
another,  and  on  the  sound  came  a  sharp  word 
out  of  the  mist  ahead  of  them  and  apparently 
at  their  very  feet  a  guttural  question  in  un- 
mistakable German.  Horrified,  the  Lieuten- 
ant stood  stiff  frozen  for  a  moment,  turned 
sharp  and  fumbled  a  way  back,  his  heart 
thumping  and  his  nerves  tingling  in  antici- 
pation of  another  challenge  or  a  sudden  shot. 
But  there  was  no  further  sound,  and  pres- 


IN  THE  MIST  85 

ently  he  and  Studd  were  clear  of  the  wire  and 
hurrying  as  silently  as  they  could  away  from 
the  danger. 

They  stopped  piiesently,  and  the  Lieuten- 
ant crouched  and  peered  about  him.  "Now 
where  are  weV  he  said,  and  then,  as  he 
caught  the  sound  of  suppressed  chuckling 
from  Studd  crouched  beside  him,  "What's 
the  joke?  I  don't  see  anything  specially 
funny  about  this  job." 

"I  was  thinkin'  of  that  Germ  back  there, 
sir,"  said  Studd,  and  giggled  again.  "About 
another  two  steps  an'  we'd  have  fell  fair 
on  top  of  'im.  Bit  of  a  surprise  like  for  'im, 
sir." 

The  Lieutenant  grinned  a  little  himself. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  no  more  surprise  than 
I  got  when  he  sang  out.  Now  what  d'you 
think  is  our  direction?" 

Studd  looked  round  him,  and  pointed 
promptly.  The  Lieutenant  disagreed  and 
thought  the  course  lay  nearly  at  right  angles 
to  Studd 's  selection.  He  had  his  compass 
with  him  and  examined  it  carefully.  "This 
bit  of  their  front  line  ran  roughly  north  and 


86  FRONT  LINES 

south,"  he  said.  ''If  we  move  west  it  must 
fetch  us  back  on  it.  We  must  have  twisted 
a  bit  coming  out  of  that  wire — but  there's 
west,"  and  he  pointed  again. 

"I  can't  figure  it  by  compass,  sir,"  said 
Studd,  ''but  here's  the  way  I  reckon  we 
came."  He  scratched  lines  on  the  ground 
between  them  with  the  point  of  his  wire  nip- 
pers. "Here's  our  line,  and  here's  theirs — 
running  this  way. ' ' 

"Yes,  north,"  said  the  Lieutenant. 

"But  then  it  bends  in  towards  ours — like 
this — an'  ours  bends  back." 

"Jove,  so  it  does,"  admitted  the  Lieuten- 
ant, thinking  back  to  the  trench  map  he  had 
studied  so  carefully  before  leaving.  "And 
we  moved  north  behind  their  trench,  so  might 
be  round  the  corner;  and  a  line  west  would 
just  carry  us  along  behind  their  front  line." 

Studd  was  still  busy  with  his  scratchings. 
"Here's  where  we  came  along  and  turned 
off  the  communication  trench.  That  would 
bring  them  lights  where  we  saw  them — about 
here.  Then  we  met  them  Germs  and  struck 
off  this  way,  an'  ran  into  that  wire,  an'  then 


IN  THE  MIST  87 

back — ^here.  So  I  figure  we  got  to  go  that 
way,"  and  lie  pointed  again. 

''That's  about  it,"  agreed  the  Lieutenant. 
''But  as  that's  toward  the  wire  and  our 
friend  who  sang  out,  we'll  hold  left  a  bit 
to  try  and  dodge  him." 

He  stood  and  looked  about  him.  The  mist 
was  wreathing  and  eddying  slowly  about 
them,  shutting  out  everything  except  a  tiny 
patch  of  wet  ground  about  their  feet.  There 
was  a  distinct  whiteness  now  about  the  mist, 
and  a  faint  glow  in  the  whiteness  that  told 
of  daylight  coming,  and  the  Lieutenant  moved 
hurriedly.  "If  it  comes  day  and  the  mist 
lifts  we're  done  in,"  he  said,  and  moved  in 
the  chosen  direction.  They  reached  wire 
again,  but  watching  for  it  this  time  avoided 
striking  into  it  and  turned,  skirting  it  to- 
wards their  left.  But  the  wire  bent  back 
and  was  forcing  them  left  again,  or  circling 
back,  and  the  Lieutenant  halted  in  despair. 
' '  We  '11  have  to  cut  through  again  and  chance 
it,"  he  said.  "We  can't  risk  hanging  about 
any  longer." 

"I'll  just  search  along  a  few  yards,  sir, 


88  FRONT  LINES 

and  see  if  there's  an  opening,"  said  Studd. 

''Both  go,"  said  the  Lieutenant.  "Better 
keep  together." 

Within  a  dozen  yards  both  stopped 
abruptly  and  again  sank  to  the  ground,  the 
Lieutenant  cursing  angrily  under  his  breath. 
Both  had  caught  the  sound  of  voices,  and 
from  their  lower  position  could  see  against 
the  light  a  line  of  standing  men,  apparently 
right  across  their  path.  A  spatter  of  rifle- 
fire  sounded  from  somewhere  out  in  the  mist, 
and  a  few  bullets  whispered  high  overhead. 
Then  came  the  distant  thud,  thud,  thud  of 
half  a  dozen  guns  firing.  One  shell  wailed 
distantly  over,  another  passed  closer  with 
a  savage  rush,  a  third  burst  twenty  yards 
away  with  a  glaring  flash  that  penetrated 
even  the  thick  fog.  The  two  had  a  quick 
glimpse  of  a  line  of  Germans  in  long  coats 
ducking  their  "coal-scuttle"  helmets  and 
throwing  themselves  to  ground.  They  were 
not  more  than  thirty  feet  away,  and  there 
were  at  least  a  score  of  them.  When  their 
eyes  recovered  from  the  flash  of  the  shell, 
the  two  could  see  not  more  than  half  a  dozen 


IN  THE  MIST  89 

figures  standing,  could  hear  talking  and 
laughing  remarks,  and  presently  heard  scuf- 
fling sounds  and  saw  figure  after  figure 
emerge  from  the  ground. 

''Trench  there,"  whispered  Studd,  leaning 
in  to  the  Lieutenant's  ear.  "They  jumped 
down. ' ' 

''Yes,"  breathed  the  Lieutenant.  He  was 
fingering  cautiously  at  the  wire  beside  him. 
It  was  staked  out,  and  as  far  as  he  could 
discover  there  was  something  like  a  two-foot 
clearance  between  the  ground  and  the  bot- 
tom strands.  It  was  a  chance,  and  the  po- 
sition was  growing  so  desperate  that  any 
chance  was  worth  taking.  He  touched 
Studd 's  elbow  and  began  to  wriggle  under 
the  wires.  Six  feet  in  they  found  another 
line  stretched  too  low  to  crawl  under  and 
could  see  and  feel  that  the  patch  of  low  wire 
extended  some  feet.  "More  coming,"  whis- 
pered Studd,  and  the  Lieutenant  heard  again 
that  sound  of  squelching  steps  and  moving 
men.  They  could  still  see  the  grey  shadowy 
figures  of  the  first  lot  standing  in  the  same 
place,    and  now   out   of   the   mist   emerged 


90  FRONT  LINES 

another  shadowy  group  moving  down  the  line 
and  past  it.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  low- 
toned  calling  and  talking  between  the  two 
lots,  and  the  Lieutenant,  seizing  the  chance 
to  work  under  cover  of  the  noise,  began 
rapidly  to  nip  his  way  through  the  wire.  It 
was  only  because  of  their  low  position  they 
could  see  the  Germans  against  the  lighter 
mist,  and  he  was  confident,  or  at  least  hoped, 
that  from  the  reversed  position  it  was  un- 
likely they  would  be  seen.  The  second  party 
passed  out  of  sight,  and  now  the  two  could  see 
a  stir  amongst  the  first  lot,  saw  them  hoist 
and  heave  bags  and  parcels  to  their  shoulders 
and  backs,  and  begin  to  move  slowly  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  that  taken  by  the  party 
passing  them. 

''Eation  party  or  ammunition  carriers," 
said  Studd  softly. 

''And  moving  to  the  front  line,"  said  the 
Lieutenant  quickly.  In  an  instant  he  had  a 
plan  made.  " We  must  follow  them.  They'll 
guide  us  to  the  line.  We  keep  close  as  we 
can  .  .  .  not  lose  touch  and  not  be  seen. 
Quick,  get  through  there. ' '    He  started  to  nip 


IN  THE  MIST  91 

rapidly  througli  the  wires.  The  party  had 
moved  and  the  outline  of  the  last  man  was 
blurring  and  fading  into  the  mist.  The  Lieu- 
tenant rose  and  began  to  stride  over  the  low 
wires.  A  last  barrier  rose  waist  high.  With 
an  exclamation  of  anger  he  fell  to  work  with 
the  nippers  again,  Studd  assisting  him.  The 
men  had  vanished.  The  Lieutenant  thrust 
through  the  wires.  His  coat  caught  and  he 
wrenched  it  free,  pushed  again  and  caught 
again.  This  time  the  stout  fabric  of  the 
trench  coat  held.  There  was  no  second  to 
waste.  The  Lieutenant  flung  loose  the  waist- 
belt,  tore  himself  out  of  the  sleeves  and  broke 
clear,  leaving  the  coat  hung  in  the  wires. 
' '  Freer  for  running  if  we  have  to  bolt  at  the 
end,"  he  said,  and  hurried  after  the  vanished 
line,  with  Studd  at  his  heels.  They  caught 
up  with  it  quickly — almost  too  quickly,  be- 
cause the  Lieutenant  nearly  overran  one  lag- 
gard who  had  halted  and  was  stooped  or 
kneeling  doing  something  to  his  bundle  on 
the  ground.  The  Lieutenant  just  in  time  saw 
him  rise  and  swing  the  bundle  to  his  shoul- 
der and  hurry  after  the  others.    Behind  him 


92  FRONT  LINES 

came  the  two,  close  enough  to  keep  his  dim 
outline  in  sight,  stooping  low  and  ready  to 
drop  flat  if  need  be,  moving  as  silently  as 
possible,  checking  and  waiting  crouched  down 
if  they  found  themselves  coming  too  close  on 
their  leader.  So  they  kept  him  in  sight  until 
he  caught  the  others  up,  followed  them  again 
so  long  that  a  horrible  doubt  began  to  fill  the 
Lieutenant's  mind,  a  fear  that  they  were  be- 
ing led  back  instead  of  forward.  He  would 
have  looked  at  his  compass,  but  at  that  mo- 
ment the  dim  grey  figures  before  him  van- 
ished abruptly  one  by  one. 

He  halted,  listening,  and  Studd  at  his  el- 
bow whispered  ''Down  into  a  trench,  sir.'^ 
Both  sank  to  their  knees  and  crawled  care- 
fully forward,  and  in  a  minute  came  to  the 
trench  and  the  spot  where  the  man  had  van- 
ished. ''Coming  near  the  front  line,  I  ex- 
pect," said  the  Lieutenant,  and  on  the  word 
came  the  crack  of  a  rifle  from  the  mist  ahead. 
The  Lieutenant  heaved  a  sigh  of  rehef. 
''Keep  down,"  he  said.  "Work  along  this 
trench  edge.    Sure  to  lead  to  the  front  line. ' ' 

A  new  hope  flooded  him.    There  was  still 


IN  THE  MIST  93 

tlie  front  trencli  to  cross,  but  the  ease  with 
which  they  had  first  come  over  it  made  him 
now,  turning  the  prospect  over  in  his  mind 
as  he  crawled,  consider  that  difficulty  with 
a  light  heart.  His  own  trench  and  his  friends 
began  to  seem  very  near.  Crossing  the  neu- 
tral ground,  which  at  other  times  would  have 
loomed  as  a  dangerous  adventure,  was  noth- 
ing after  this  hair-raising  performance  of 
blundering  about  inside  the  German  lines. 
He  moved  with  certainty  and  confidence,  al- 
though yet  with  the  greatest  caution.  Twice 
they  came  to  a  belt  of  wire  running  down 
to  the  edges  of  the  trench  they  followed. 
The  Lieutenant,  after  a  brief  pause  to  look 
and  listen,  slid  down  into  the  trench,  passed 
the  wire,  climbed  out  again,  always  with 
Studd  close  behind  him.  Once  they  lay  flat 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  trench  and  watched 
a  German  pass  along  beneath  them  so  close 
they  could  have  put  a  hand  on  his  helmet. 
Once  more  they  crouched  in  a  shell-hole  while 
a  dozen  men  floundered  along  the  trench. 
And  so  they  came  at  last  to  the  front  line. 
Foot  by  foot  they  wriggled  close  up  to  it. 


94  FRONT  LINES 

The  Lieutenant  at  first  saw  no  sign  of  a 
German,  but  Studd  beside  him  gripped  his 
arm  with  a  warning  pressure,  and  the  Lieu- 
tenant lay  motionless.  Suddenly,  what  he 
had  taken  to  be  part  of  the  outline  of  the 
parapet  beyond  the  trench  moved  and  raised, 
and  he  saw  the  outline  of  a  steel-helmeted 
head  and  a  pair  of  broad  shoulders.  The 
man  turned  his  head  and  spoke,  and  with  a 
shock  the  Lieutenant  heard  a  murmur  of 
voices  in  the  trench,  saw  figures  stir  and 
move  in  the  mist.  Studd  wriggled  noise- 
lessly closer  and,  with  his  lips  touching  the 
Lieutenant's  ear,  whispered  ''I  know  where 
we  are.  Remember  this  bit  we're  on.  We 
crossed  to  the  left  of  here." 

They  backed  away  from  the  trench  a  little 
and  worked  carefully  along  it  to  their  left, 
and  presently  Studd  whispered,  ''About  here, 
I  think."  They  edged  closer  in,  staring 
across  for  sight  of  the  silhouette  of  the  rifle 
butt  above  the  parapet.  The  mist  had  grown 
thicker  again  and  the  parapet  showed  no 
more  than  a  faint  grey  bulk  against  the 
lighter  grey.    The  trench  appeared  to  be  full 


IN  THE  MIST  95 

of  men— ''standing  to"  the  Lieutenant  sup- 
posed they  were — and  they  moved  at  the  most 
appalling  risk,  their  lives  hanging  on  their 
silence  and  stealth,  perhaps  on  the  chance 
of  some  man  climbing  back  out  of  the  trench. 
The  Lieutenant  was  shivering  with  excite- 
ment, his  nerves  jumping  at  every  movement 
or  sound  of  a  voice  from  the  trench  beside 
them. 

Studd  grasped  his  elbow  again  and  pointed 
to  the  broken  edge  of  trench  where  they  lay, 
and  the  Lieutenant,  thinking  he  recognised 
the  spot  they  had  climbed  out  on  their  first 
crossing,  stared  hard  across  to  the  parapet 
in  search  of  the  rifle  butt.  He  saw  it  at  last. 
But  what  lay  between  it  and  them  I  Were 
there  Germans  crouching  in  the  trench  bot- 
tom? But  they  must  risk  that,  risk  every- 
thing in  a  dash  across  and  over  the  parapet. 
A  puff  of  wind  stirred  and  set  the  mist  eddy- 
ing and  lifting  a  moment.  They  dare  wait 
no  longer.  If  the  wind  came  the  mist  would 
go,  and  with  it  would  go  their  chance  of 
crossing  the  No  Man's  Land.  He  whispered 
a   moment   to    Studd,    sat   up,   twisted   his 


96  FRONT  LINES 

legs  round  to  the  edge  of  the  trench,  slid 
his  trench  dagger  from  its  sheath  and  set- 
tled his  fingers  to  a  firm  grip  on  the  handle, 
took  a  deep  breath,  and  slid  over  feet  fore- 
most into  the  trench.  In  two  quick  strides 
he  was  across  it  and  scrambling  up  the  para- 
pet. The  trench  here  was  badly  broken  down 
and  a  muddy  pool  lay  in  the  bottom.  Studd 
caught  a  foot  in  something  and  splashed 
heavily,  and  a  voice  from  a  yard  or  two  on 
their  left  called  sharply.  The  Lieutenant 
slithering  over  the  parapet  heard  and  cringed 
from  the  shot  he  felt  must  come.  But  a 
voice  to  their  right  answered;  the  Lieuten- 
ant slid  down,  saw  Studd  scramble  over  after, 
heard  the  voices  calling  and  answering  and 
men  splashing  in  the  trench  behind  them. 
He  rose  to  his  feet  and  ran,  Studd  following 
close.  From  the  parapet  behind  came  the 
spitting  bang  of  a  rifle  and  the  bullet  whipped 
past  most  uncomfortably  close.  It  would 
have  been  safer  perhaps  to  have  dropped  to 
shelter  in  a  shell-hole  and  crawled  on  after 
a  reasonable  wait,  but  the  Lieutenant  had 
had  enough  of  crawling  and  shell-holes  for 


IN  THE  MIST  97 

one  night,  and  was  in  a  most  single-minded 
hurry  to  get  away  as  far  and  as  fast  as  he 
could  from  Germans'  neighbourhood,.  He 
and  Studd  ran  on,  and  no  more  shots  followed 
them.  The  mist  was  thinning  rapidly,  and 
they  found  their  own  outposts  in  the  act  of 
withdrawal  to  the  trench.  The  Lieutenant 
hurried  past  them,  zigzagged  through  their 
own  wire,  and  with  a  gasp  of  relief  jumped 
down  into  the  trench.  He  sat  there  a  few 
minutes  to  recover  his  breath  and  then  started 
along  the  line  to  find  Headquarters  and  make 
his  report. 

On  his  way  he  met  the  officer  who  had 
watched  them  leave  the  trench  and  was 
greeted  with  a  laugh.  ''Hullo,  old  cock. 
Some  mud !  You  look  as  if  you  'd  been  crawl- 
ing a  bit.    See  any  Boche?" 

"Crawling!"  said  the  Lieutenant.  ''Any 
Boche!  I've  been  doing  nothing  but  crawl 
for  a  hundred  years — except  when  I  was 
squirming  on  my  face.  And  I've  been  fall- 
ing over  Boche,  treading  on  Boche,  bumping 
into  Boche,  listening  to  Boche  remarks — oh, 


98  FRONT  LINES 

ever  since  I  can  remember,"  and  lie  laughed, 
just  a  trifle  hysterically. 

**Did  you  get  over  their  line  then?  If 
so,  you're  just  back  in  time.  Mist  has  clean 
gone  in  the  last  few  minutes."  A  sudden 
thought  struck  the  Lieutenant.  He  peered 
long  and  carefully  over  the  parapet.  The 
last  wisps  of  mist  were  shredding  away  and 
the  jumble  of  torn  ground  and  trenches  and 
wire  in  the  German  lines  was  plainly  visible. 
''Look,"  said  the  Lieutenant.  ** Three  or 
four  hundred  yards  behind  their  line — ^hang- 
ing on  some  wire.    That's  my  coat.  ..." 


VT 

SEEING  RED 

The  Mess,  having  fiDished  reading  the  letters 
just  brought  in,  were  looking  through  the 
home  papers.  Harvey,  who  used  to  be  a  bank 
clerk,  giggled  over  a  page  in  Punch  and 
passed  it  round.  ' '  Pretty  true,  too,  isn  't  it !  " 
he  said.  The  page  was  one  of  those  silly 
jolly  little  drawings  by  Bateman  of  men  with 
curly  legs,  and  the  pictures  showed  typical 
scenes  from  the  old  life  of  an  average  City 
clerk,  trotting  to  business,  playing  dominoes, 
and  so  on,  and  the  last  one  of  a  fellow  tear- 
ing over  the  trenches  in  a  charge  with  a 
real  teeth-gritted,  blood-in-his-eye  look,  and 
the  title  of  the  lot  was  "It's  the  Same  Man." 

Everyone  grinned  at  it  and  said  ''Pretty 
true,"  or  something  like  that.  "It  reminds 
me  ..."  said  the  Australian. 

Now  this  is  the  Australian's  story,  which 

he  said  he  had  got  from  one  of  the  fellows 

99 


100  FRONT  LINES 

in  the  show.  For  the  truth  or  nntnith  I  give 
no  guarantee,  but  just  tell  the  tale  for  what 
it's  worth. 

Teddy  Silsey  was  an  Australian  born  and 
bred,  but  he  could  not  be  called  a  typical  Aus- 
tralian so  far  as  people  in  the  Old  Country 
count  him  ''typical."  With  them  there  is  a 
general  impression  that  every  real  Austra- 
lian can  ''ride  and  shoot,"  and  that  men  in 
Australia  spend  the  greater  part  of  their  nor- 
mal existence  galloping  about  the  "ranch" 
after  cattle  or  shooting  kangaroos.  Teddy 
Silsey  wasn't  one  of  that  sort.  He  was  one 
of  the  many  thousands  of  the  other  sort,  who 
have  been  reared  in  the  cities  of  Australia, 
and  who  all  his  life  had  gone  to  school  and 
business  there  and  led  just  as  humdrum  and 
peaceable  a  life  as  any  London  City  clerk 
of  the  Punch  picture. 

When  the  War  came,  Teddy  was  thirty 
years  of  age,  married,  and  comfortably  set- 
tled in  a  little  suburban  house  outside  Syd- 
ney, and  already  inclined  to  be — well,  if  not 
fat,  at  least  distinctly  stout.  He  had  never 
killed  anything  bigger  than  a  fly  or  met  any- 


SEEING  RED  101 

thing  more  dangerous  than  a  mosquito ;  and 
after  an  unpleasant  episode  in  which  his  wife 
had  asked  him  to  kill  for  the  Sunday  dinner  a 
chicken  which  the  poultry  people  had  stupidly 
sent  up  alive,  an  episode  which  ended  in 
Teddy  staggering  indoors  with  blood-smeared 
hands  and  challry  face  while  a  headless  fowl 
flapped  round  the  garden,  both  Teddy  and 
his  wife  settled  do\vn  to  a  firm  belief  that  he 
''had  a  horror  of  blood,"  and  told  their 
friends  and  neighbours  so  with  a  tinge  of 
complacency  in  the  fact. 

Eemembering  this,  it  is  easy  to  understand 
the  consternation  in  Mrs.  Teddy's  mind  when, 
after  the  War  had  been  running  a  year,  Teddy 
announced  that  he  was  going  to  enlist.  He 
was  firm  about  it  too.  He  had  thought  the 
whole  thing  out — house  to  be  shut  up,  she 
to  go  stay  with  her  mother,  his  separation 
allowance  so  much,  and  so  much  more  in 
the  bank  to  draw  on,  and  so  on.  Her  re- 
monstrances he  met  so  promptly  that  one  can 
only  suppose  them  anticipated.  His  health? 
Never  had  a  day's  sickness,  as  she  knew. 
His  business  prospects?    The  country's  pros- 


102  FRONT  LINES 

pects  were  more  important,  and  his  Country 
Wanted  Him.  His  "horror  of  blood'"? 
Teddy  twisted  uneasily.  ''I've  a  horror  of 
the  whole  beastly  business,"  he  said — "of 
war  and  guns  and  shooting,  of  being  killed, 
and  ...  of  leaving  you."  This  was  diplo- 
macy of  the  highest,  and  the  resulting  inter- 
lude gently  slid  into  an  acceptance  of  the 
fact  of  his  going. 

He  went,  and — ^to  get  along  with  the  War — 
at  last  came  to  France,  and  with  his  battalion 
into  the  trenches.  He  had  not  risen  above 
the  rank  of  private,  partly  because  he  lacked 
any  ambition  to  command,  and  in  larger  part 
because  his  superiors  did  not  detect  any 
ability  in  him  to  handle  the  rather  rough- 
and-ready  crowd  who  were  in  his  lot.  Far 
from  army  training  and  rations  doing  him 
physical  harm,  he  throve  on  them,  and  even 
put  on  flesh.  But  because  he  was  really  a 
good  sort,  was  always  willing  to  lend  any 
cash  he  had,  take  a  fatigue  for  a  friend,  joke 
over  hardships  and  laugh  at  discomforts,  he 
was  on  excellent  terms  with  his  fellows.  He 
shed  a  good  many,  if  not  all,  of  his  suburban 


SEEING  EED  103 

peace  ways,  was  a  fairly  good  shot  on  the 
ranges,  and  even  acquired  considerable  skill 
and  agility  at  bayonet  practice.  But  he  never 
quite  shed  his  "horror  of  blood."  Even 
after  he  had  been  in  action  a  time  or  two 
and  had  fired  many  rounds  from  his  rifle, 
he  had  a  vague  hope  each  time  he  pulled 
trigger  that  his  bullet  might  not  kill  a  man, 
might  at  most  only  wound  him  enough  to 
put  him  out  of  action.  The  first  shell  cas- 
ualty he  saw  in  their  own  ranks  made  him 
literally  and  actually  sick,  and  even  after 
he  had  seen  many  more  casualties  than  he 
cared  to  think  about  he  still  retained  a 
squeamish  feeling  at  sight  of  them.  And  in 
his  battalion's  share  of  The  Push,  where 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  close-quarter  work 
and  play  with  bombs  and  bayonet,  he  never 
had  urgent  need  to  use  his  bayonet,  and  when 
a  party  of  Germans  in  a  dugout  refused  to 
surrender,  and  persisted  instead  in  firing  up 
the  steps  at  anyone  who  showed  at  the  top, 
Teddy  stood  aside  and  left  the  others  to  do 
the  bombing-out.  ^ 

It  was  ridiculous,  of  course,  that  a  fight- 


104  FRONT  LINES 

ing  man  who  was  there  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  killing  should  feel  any  qualms  about 
doing  it,  but  there  it  was. 

Then  came  the  day  when  the  Germans  made 
a  heavy  counter-attack  on  the  positions  held 
by  the  Australians.  The  positions  were  not 
a  complete  joined-up  defensive  line  along  the 
outer  front.  The  fighting  had  been  heavy 
and  bitter,  and  the  German  trenches  which 
were  captured  had  been  so  thoroughly  pound- 
ed by  shell  fire  that  they  no  longer  existed 
as  trenches,  and  the  Australians  had  to  be 
satisfied  with  the  establishment  of  a  line  of 
posts  manned  as  strongly  as  possible,  with 
plenty  of  machine-guns. 

Teddy's  battalion  was  not  in  this  front 
fringe  when  the  counter-attack,  launched 
without  any  warning  bombardment,  flooded 
suddenly  over  the  outer  defences,  surged 
heavily  back,  drove  in  the  next  lines,  and 
broke  and  battered  them  in  and  down  under- 
foot. 

Something  like  a  couple  of  thousand  yards 
in  over  our  lines  that  first  savage  rush 
brought  the  Germans,  and  nearly  twoscore 


SEEING  EED  105 

guns  were  in  their  hands  before  they  checked 
and  hesitated,  and  the  Australian  supports 
flung  themselves  in  on  a  desperate  counter- 
attack. The  first  part  of  the  German  pro- 
gramme was  an  undoubted  and  alarming  suc- 
cess. The  posts  and  strong  points  along 
our  front  were  simply  overwhelmed,  or  sur- 
rounded and  cut  off,  and  went  under,  mak- 
ing the  best  finish  they  could  with  the  bayo- 
net, or  in  some  cases — ^well,  Teddy  Silsey  and 
a  good  many  other  Australians  saw  just  what 
happened  in  these  other  cases,  and  are  not 
likely  ever  to  forget  it.  The  German  attack 
— as  in  many  historic  cases  in  this  war — ap- 
peared to  fizzle  out  in  the  most  amazing  fash- 
ion after  it  had  come  with  such  speed  and 
sweeping  success  for  so  far.  Our  guns,  of 
course,  were  hard  at  work,  and  were  doing 
the  most  appalling  damage  to  the  dense 
masses  that  offered  as  targets ;  but  that  would 
hardly  account  for  the  slackening  of  the  rush, 
because  the  guns  had  waked  at  the  first  crash 
of  rifle  and  bomb  reports,  and  the  Germans 
were  under  just  about  as  severe  a  fire  for 
the  second  half  of  their  rush  as  they  were 


106  FRONT  LINES 

at  the  end  of  it  when  they  checked.  There 
appeared  to  be  a  hesitation  about  their  move- 
ments, a  confusion  in  their  plans,  a  doubt  as 
to  what  they  ought  to  do  next,  that  halted 
them  long  enough  to  lose  the  great  advantage 
of  their  momentum.  The  first  hurried  coun- 
ter-attack flung  in  their  face  was  compara- 
tively feeble,  and  if  they  had  kept  going 
should  easily  have  been  brushed  aside.  Thir- 
ty-odd guns  were  in  their  hands;  and,  most 
dangerous  of  all,  one  other  short  storm  for- 
v>^ard  would  have  brought  them  swamping 
over  a  whole  solid  mass  of  our  field  guns — 
which  at  the  moment  were  about  the  only 
thing  left  to  hold  back  their  attack — and 
within  close  rifle  and  machine-gun  range  of 
the  fringe  of  our  heavies.  But  at  this  criti- 
cal stage,  for  no  good  reason,  and  against 
every  military  reason,  they,  as  so  often  be- 
fore, hesitated,  and  were  lost.  Another  Aus- 
tralian counter-attack,  this  time  much  bet- 
ter organised  and  more  solidly  built,  was 
launched  headlong  on  their  confusion.  They 
gave  ground  a  little  in  some  places,  tried  to 
push  on  in  others,  halted  and  strove  to  se- 


SEEING  EED  107 

cure  positions  and  grip  the  trenches  in  others. 
The  Australians,  savagely  angry  at  being  so 
caught  and  losing  so  much  ground,  drove 
in  on  them,  bombing,  shooting,  and  bayonet- 
ing; while  over  the  heads  of  the  front-rank 
fighters  the  guns  poured  a  furious  tempest 
of  shrapnel  and  high  explosive  on  the  masses 
that  sifted  and  eddied  behind.  The  issue 
hung  in  doubt  for  no  more  than  a  bare  five 
minutes.  The  Germans  who  had  tried  to 
push  on  were  shot  and  cut  down ;  the  parties 
that  held  portions  of  trench  were  killed  or 
driven  out ;  the  waverers  were  rushed,  beaten 
in,  and  driven  back  in  confusion  on  the  sup- 
ports that  struggled  up  through  the  tornado 
of  shell-fire.  Then  their  whole  front  crum- 
pled, and  collapsed,  and  gave,  and  the  Aus- 
tralians began  to  recover  their  ground  almost 
as  quickly  as  they  had  lost  it. 

Now  Teddy  Silsey,  while  all  this  was  going 
on,  had  been  with  his  company  in  a  position 
mid-way  across  the  depth  of  captured  ground. 
He  and  about  forty  others,  with  two  officers, 
had  tried  to  hold  the  battered  remnant  of 
trench  they  were  occupying,  and  did  actually 


108  FRONT  LINES 

continue  to  hold  it  after  the  rush  of  the  Ger- 
man front  had  swept  far  past  them.  They 
were  attacked  on  all  sides,  shot  away  their 
last  cartridge,  had  their  machine-guns  put 
out  of  action  by  bombs,  had  about  half  their 
number  killed,  and  almost  every  man  of  the 
remainder  wounded.  They  were  clearly  cut 
off,  with  thousands  of  Germans  between  them 
and  their  supports,  could  see  fresh  German 
forces  pressing  on  past  them,  could  hear  the 
din  of  fighting  receding  rapidly  farther  and 
farther  back.  The  two  officers,  both  wounded/ 
but  able  more  or  less  to  stand  up,  conferred 
hastily,  and  surrendered. 

Of  this  last  act  Teddy  Silsey  was  unaware, 
because  a  splinter  of  some  sort,  striking  on 
his  steel  helmet,  had  stunned  him  and  dropped 
him  completely  insensible.  Two  dead  men 
fell  across  him  as  he  lay,  and  probably  ac- 
counted for  the  Germans  at  the  moment  over- 
looking him  as  they  collected  their  prisoners. 

Teddy  wakened  to  dim  consciousness  to 
find  a  number  of  Germans  busily  and  con- 
fusedly engaged  in  setting  the  bit  of  trench 
in  a  state  of  defence.    They  trod  on  him  and 


SEEING  RED  109 

the  two  dead  men  on  top  of  him  a  good  deal, 
but  Teddy,  slowly  taking  in  his  situation,  and 
wondering  vaguely  what  his  next  move  should 
be,  did  the  wisest  possible  thing  under  the 
circumstances — ^lay  still. 

A  little  before  this  the  Australian  counter- 
attack had  been  sprung,  and  before  Teddy 
had  made  up  his  mind  about  moving  he  be- 
gan to  be  aware  that  the  battle  was  flood- 
ing back  on  him.  The  Germans  beside  him 
saw  it  too,  and,  without  any  attempt  to  de- 
fend their  position,  clambered  from  the 
trench  and  disappeared  from  Teddy's  imme- 
diate view.  Teddy  crawled  up  and  had  a 
look  out.  It  was  difficult  to  see  much  at 
first,  because  there  was  a  good  deal  of  smoke 
about  from  our  bursting  shells,  but  as  the 
counter-attack  pushed  on  and  the  Germans 
went  back,  the  shells  followed  them,  and  pres- 
ently the  air  cleared  enough  for  Teddy  to 
see  glimpses  of  khaki  and  to  be  certain  that 
every  German  he  saw  was  getting  away  from 
the  khaki  neighbourhood  as  rapidly  as  pos- 
sible. In  another  minute  a  couple  of  Aus- 
tralians, hugging  some  machine-guns  parts, 


110  FRONT  LINES 

tumbled  into  his  trench,  two  or  three  others 
arrived  panting,  and  in  a  moment  the  ma- 
chine-gun was  in  action  and  streaming  fire 
and  bullets  into  the  backs  of  any  parties  of 
Germans  that  crossed  the  sights. 

One  of  the  new-comers,  a  sergeant,  looked 
round  and  saw  Teddy  squatting  on  the  broken 
edge  of  the  trench  and  looking  very  sick  and 
shaken.  "Hullo,  mate,"  said  the  sergeant, 
glancing  at  the  patch  of  coloured  cloth  on 
Teddy's  shoulder  that  told  his  unit.  ''Was 
you  with  the  bunch  in  this  hole  when  Fritz 
jumped  you?"  Teddy  gulped  and  nodded. 
"You  stopped  one?"  said  the  sergeant. 
" Where 'd  it  get  you?" 

"No,"  said  Teddy;  "I— I  think  I'm  all 
right.    Got  a  bit  of  a  bump  on  the  head." 

"  'Nother  bloke  to  say  'Go'  bless  the  tin- 
'at  makers '  in  'is  prayers  every  night. ' '  He 
turned  from  Teddy.  "Isn't  it  time  we 
humped  this  shooter  a  bit  on  again,  boys?" 
he  said. 

"Looks  like  the  Boche  was  steadyin'  up  a 
bit, ' '  said  a  machine-gunner.  * '  An '  our  line 's 
bumped  a  bit  o '  a  snag  along  on  the  left  there. 


SEEING  RED  111 

I  think  we  might  spray  'em  a  little  down  that 
way.'^ 

They  slewed  the  gun  in  search  of  fresh 
targets,  while  from  a  broken  trench  some 
score  yards  from  their  front  a  gathering  vol- 
ume of  rifle-fire  began  to  pelt  and  tell  of 
the  German  resistance  stiffening. 

''Strewth,"  growled  the  sergeant,  'Hhis  is 

no  bon !    If  we  give  'em  time  to  settle  in 

Hullo," — he  broke  off,  and  stared  out  in  front 
over  the  trench  edge — ' '  wot 's  that  lot  ?  They 
look  like  khaki.    Prisoners,  by  cripes!" 

Every  man  peered  out  anxiously.  Two  to 
three  hundreds  yards  away  they  could  see 
emerging  from  the  broken  end  of  a  conununi- 
cation  trench  a  single  file  of  men  in  khaki 
without  arms  in  their  hands,  and  with  half  a 
dozen  rifle-  and  bayonet-armed  Germans 
guarding  them.  Teddy,  who  was  watching 
with  the  others,  exclaimed  suddenly.  ''It's 
my  lot,"  he  said.  ''That's  the  captain — him 
with  the  red  hair;  and  I  recognise  Big  Mick, 
and  Terry — Terry's  wounded — see  him  limp. 
That's  my  mate  Terry." 

The  firing  on  both  sides  had  slacked  for  a 


112  FRONT  LINES 

moment,  and  none  of  the  watchers  missed 
one  single  movement  of  what  followed.  It 
is  unpleasant  telling,  as  it  was  unutterably 
horrible  watching.  The  prisoners,  except  the 
two  officers,  who  were  halted  above  ground, 
were  guided  down  into  a  portion  of  trench 
into  which  they  disappeared.  The  guards 
had  also  remained  above.  What  followed 
is  best  told  briefly.  The  two  officers,  in  full 
view  of  the  watchers,  were  shot  down  as 
they  stood,  the  rifle  muzzles  touching  their 
backs.  The  Germans  round  the  trench  edge 
tossed  bombs  down  on  the  men  penned  below. 
Before  the  spurting  smoke  came  billowing 
up  out  of  the  trench,  Teddy  Silsey  leaped  to 
his  feet  with  a  scream,  and  flung  himself 
scrambling  up  the  trench  wall.  But  the  ser- 
geant, with  a  gust  of  bitter  oaths,  gripped 
and  held  him.  ''Get  to  it  there,"  he  snarled 
savagely  at  the  men  about  the  gun.  "D'you 
want  a  better  target?"  The  gun  muzzle 
twitched  and  steadied  and  ripped  out  a  stream 
of  bullets.  The  Germans  about  the  trench 
lip  turned  to  run,  but  the  storm  caught  and 
cut    them   down — except    one    or   two    who 


SEEING  RED  113 

ducked  down  into  the  trench  on  top  of  their 
victims.  Teddy  found  them  there  three  min- 
utes after,  stayed  only  long  enough  to  finish 
them,  and  ran  on  with  the  other  Australians 
who  swarmed  yelling  forward  to  the  attack 
again.  Others  had  seen  the  butchery,  and 
those  who  had  not  quickly  heard  of  it.  Every 
group  of  dead  Australians  discovered  as  the 
line  surged  irresistibly  forward  was  declared, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  to  be  another  lot  of  mur- 
dered prisoners.  The  advance  went  with  a 
fury,  with  a  storming  rage  that  nothing  could 
withstand.  The  last  remnant  of  organised 
German  defence  broke  utterly,  and  the  sup- 
ports coming  up  found  themselves  charged 
into,  hustled,  mixed  up  with,  and  thrown  into 
utter  confusion  by  the  mob  of  fugitives  and 
the  line  of  shooting,  bombing,  bayoneting 
Australians  that  pressed  hard  on  their  heels. 
The  supports  tried  to  make  some  sort  of 
stand,  but  they  failed,  were  borne  back,  bus- 
tled, lost  direction,  tried  to  charge  again, 
broke  and  gave,  scattering  and  running,  were 
caught  in  a  ferocious  flank  fire,  reeled  and 
swung  wide  from  it,  and  found  themselves 


114  FRONT  LINES 

penned  and  jammed  back  against  .a  broad, 
deep,  and  high  belt  of  their  own  barbed  wire. 
Some  of  them,  by  quick  work  and  running 
the  gauntlet  of  that  deadly  flanking  fire,  won 
clear  and  escaped  round  the  end  of  the  belt. 
The  rest — and  there  were  anything  over  two 
thousand  of  them — were  trapped.  The  Aus- 
tralian line  closed  in,  pouring  a  storm  of 
rifle  fire  on  them.  Some  tried  to  tear  a  way 
through,  or  over,  or  under  the  impenetrable 
thicket  of  their  own  wire;  others  ran  wildly 
up  and  down  looking  for  an  opening,  for  any 
escape  from  those  pelting  bullets;  others 
again  held  their  hands  high  and  ran  towards 
the  crackling  rifles  shrieking  ''Kamerad" 
surrenders  that  were  drowned  in  the  drum- 
ming roll  of  rifle  fire;  and  some  few  threw 
themselves  down  and  tried  to  take  cover 
and  fire  back  into  the  teeth  of  the  storm  that 
beat  upon  them.  But  the  Australian  line 
closed  in  grimly  and  inexorably,  the  men 
shooting  and  moving  forward  a  pace  or  two, 
standing  and  shooting — shooting — shooting. 
.  .  .  Teddy  Silsey  shot  away  every  round 
he  carried,  ceased  firing  only  long  enough  to 


SEEING  RED  115 

snatcli  up  a  fresh  supply  from  a  dead  man's 
belt,  stood  again  and  shot  steadily  and  with 
savage  intensity  into  the  thinning  crowd  that 
struggled  and  tore  at  the  tangled  mass  of 
wire. 

And  all  the  time  he  cursed  bitterly  and 
abominably,  reviling  and  pouring  oaths  of 
vengeance  on  the  brutes,  the  utter  savages 
who  had  murdered  his  mates  in  cold  blood. 
To  every  man  who  came  near  him  he  had 
only  one  message — "Kill  them  out.  They 
killed  their  prisoners.     I   saw  them  do  it. 

Kill  the !''  with  a  shot  after  each 

sentence. 

And  there  was  a  killing.  There  were  other 
results — the  lost  ground  recaptured  and 
made  good;  the  taken  guns  retaken,  five  of 
them  damaged  and  others  with  the  unex- 
ploded  destroying  charges  set  and  ready  for 
firing;  some  slight  gains  made  at  certain 
points.  But  the  Australians  there  will  always 
remember  that  fight  for  the  big  killing,  for 
those  murderer  Huns  pinned  against  their 
own  wire,  for  the  burning  hot  barrels  of  the 
rifles,  for  the  scattered  groups  of  their  own 


116  FRONT  LINES 

dead — their  murdered-prisoner  dead — and 
for  the  two  thousand-odd  German  bodies 
counted  where  they  fell  or  hung  limp  in  the 
tangles  of  their  barbed  wire. 

And  next  day  Teddy  Silsey  volunteered  for 
the  Bombing  Company,  the  Suicide  Club,  as 
they  call  themselves.  He  wanted  close-up 
work,  he  explained.  With  a  rifle  you  could 
never  be  sure  you  got  your  own  man.  With 
a  bomb  you  could  see  him — —  and  he  detailed 
what  he  wanted  to  see.  He  appeared  to  have 
completely  forgotten  his  ''horror  of  blood.'* 


vn 

AN  AIR  BARKAGE 

The  Gnimery  Officer  was  an  enthusiast  on 
his  work — in  fact,  if  you  took  the  Squadron's 
word  for  it,  he  went  past  that  and  was  an 
utter  crank  on  machine-guns  and  everything 
connected  with  them.  They  admitted  all  the 
benefits  of  this  enthusiasm,  the  excellent 
state  in  which  their  guns  were  always  to  be 
found,  the  fact  that  in  air  fighting  they  prob- 
ably had  fewer  stoppages  and  gun  troubles 
than  any  other  Squadron  at  the  Front;  but 
on  the  other  hand  they  protested  that  there 
was  a  time  and  place  for  everything,  and  that 
you  could  always  have  too  much  of  a  good 
thing.  It  was  bad  enough  to  have  ''Guns" 
himself  cranky  on  the  subject,  but  when  he 
infected  the  Recording  Officer  with  his  craze, 
it  was  time  to  kick.  ''Guns"  usually  had 
some  of  the  mechanism  of  his  pets  in  his 

pockets,  and  he  and  the  R.O.  could  be  seen 
117 


118  FRONT  LINES 

in  the  ante-room  fingering  these  over,  gloat- 
ing over  them  or  discussing  some  technical 
points.  They  had  to  be  made  to  sit  apart 
at  mess  because  the  gun-talk  never  ceased 
so  long  as  they  were  together,  and  the  two  at 
the  same  table  were  enough  to  bring  any  real 
game  of  Bridge  or  Whist  to  utter  confusion. 
As  one  of  their  partners  said,  ' '  I  never  know 
whether  Guns  is  declaring  No  Trumps  or 
tracer  bullets  or  Hearts  or  ring  sights.  If 
you  ask  what  the  score  is,  he  starts  in  to  reel 
off  the  figures  of  the  Squadron's  last  shoot- 
ing test;  he'll  fidget  to  finish  the  most  ex- 
citing rubber  you  ever  met  and  get  away  to 
his  beastly  armoury  to  pull  the  innards  out 
of  some  inoffensive  Lewis.    He's  hopeless." 

Guns  and  the  E.O.  between  them  appar- 
ently came  to  a  conclusion  that  we  were 
chucking  the  war  away  because  we  didn't 
concentrate  enough  on  machine-gun  fright- 
fulness.  They'd  have  washed  out  the  whole 
artillery  probably,  Archies  included,  if  they'd 
been  asked,  and  given  every  man  a  machine- 
gun  on  his  shoulder  and  a  machine-pistol  in 
his  hip-pocket.    They  wasted  a  morning  and 


AN  AIR  BARRAGE  119 

an  appalling  number  of  rounds  satisfying 
themselves  that  machine-guns  would  cut  away 
barbed-wire  entanglements,  stealing  a  roll 
of  wire  from  some  unsuspecting  Engineers' 
dump,  erecting  a  sample  entanglement  in 
the  quarry,  and  pelting  it  with  bullets.  And 
they  called  the  CO.  ''narrow-minded"  when 
he  made  a  fuss  about  the  number  of  rounds 
they'd  used,  and  reminded  them  barbed  wire 
didn't  figure  in  air  fighting.  They  tramped 
miles  across  country,  one  carrying  a  Vickers 
and  the  other  a  Lewis,  to  settle  some  argu- 
ment about  how  far  or  how  fast  a  man  could 
hump  the  guns;  they  invented  fakements 
enough  to  keep  a  private  branch  of  the  Pat- 
ents Office  working  overtime  logging  them  up. 

It  sounds  crazy,  but  then,  as  the  Squadron 
protested,  they,  Guns  especially,  were  crazy, 
and  that's  aU  there  was  to  it. 

But  with  these  notions  of  theirs  about  the 
infallibility  of  machine-guns,  and  the  range 
of  their  usefulness,  you  will  understand  how 
their  minds  leaped  to  machine-gun  tactics 
when  the  Hun  night-fliers  began  to  come  over 
and  bomb  around  the  'drome.    The  first  night 


120  FRONT  LINES 

they  came  Guns  nearly  broke  his  neck  by 
falling  into  a  deep  hole  in  his  mad  rnsh  to 
get  to  the  anti-aircraft  machine-guns  on  the 
'drome  near  the  sheds,  and  he  alternated  be- 
tween moping  and  cursing  for  three  days  be- 
cause the  Huns  had  gone  before  he  could  get 
a  crack  at  them.  He  cheered  up  a  lot  when 
they  came  the  next  time  and  he  and  the  R.O. 
shot  away  a  few-million  rounds,  more  or 
less.  But  as  he  didn't  fetch  a  feather  out 
of  them,  and  as  the  Huns  dropped  their  eggs 
horribly  close  to  the  hangars,  the  two  were 
not  properly  satisfied,  and  began  to  work  out 
all  sorts  of  protective  schemes  and  sit  up  as 
long  as  the  moon  was  shining  in  hopes  of  a 
bit  of  shooting. 

Their  hopes  were  fully  satisfied,  or  anyhow 
the  Squadron's  more  than  were,  because  the 
Huns  made  a  regular  mark  of  the  'drome 
and  strafed  it  night  after  night.  And  for 
all  the  rounds  they  shot,  neither  Guns  nor 
the  E.O.  ever  got  a  single  bird,  although 
they  swore  more  than  once  that  they  were 
positive  they  had  winged  one.  As  none  came 
down  on  our  side  of  the  lines,  this  claim 


AN  AIR  BARRAGE  121 

was  a  washout,  and  the  two  got  quite  wor- 
ried about  it  and  had  to  stand  an  unmerci- 
ful amount  of  chaff  from  the  others  on  the 
dud  shooting. 

After  a  bit  they  evolved  a  new  plan.  Care- 
ful investigation  and  inquiry  of  different 
pilots  in  the  Squadron  gave  them  the  ground- 
work for  the  plan.  In  answer  to  questions, 
some  of  the  pilots  said  that  if  they  were  in 
the  place  of  the  Huns  and  wanted  to  find  the 
'drome  in  the  dark,  they  would  steer  for  the 
unusual-shaped  clump  of  wood  which  lay  be- 
hind the  'drome.  Some  said  they  would  fol- 
low the  canal,  others  the  road,  others  various 
guides,  but  all  agreed  that  the  wood  was 
the  object  the  Huns  would  steer  for.  This 
found,  all  the  pilots  again  agreed  it  was  a 
simple  matter  to  coast  along  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  which  would  show  up  a  black  blot  on 
the  ground  in  the  moonlight,  find  the  tongue 
or  spur  of  trees  that  ran  straight  out  towards 
the  'drome,  and,  keeping  that  line,  must  fly 
exactly  over  the  hangars.  One  or  two  nights ' 
careful  listening  to  the  direction  of  the  ap- 
proaching and  departing  Hun  engines  con- 


122  FRONT  LINES 

firmed  the  belief  that  the  Huns  were  working 
on  the  lines  indicated,  and  after  this  was 
sure  the  plan  progressed  rapidly. 

The  two  machine-guns  on  the  'drome  were' 
trained  and  aimed  in  daylight  to  shower  bul- 
lets exactly  over  the  tip  of  the  tongue  of 
wood.  A  patent  gadget  invented  by  Guns 
allowed  the  gun-muzzles  a  certain  amount 
of  play  up  and  down,  play  which  careful 
calculation  showed  would  pour  a  couple  of 
streams  of  bullets  across  the  end  of  the 
wood  up  and  down  a  height  extending  to 
about  a  thousand  feet,  that  is,  500  above  and 
500  below  the  level  at  which  it  was  estimated 
the  Huns  usually  flew  on  these  night  raids. 
It  simply  meant  that  as  soon  as  the  sound 
was  judged  to  be  near  enough  the  two  guns 
only  had  to  open  fire,  to  keep  pouring  out 
bullets  to  make  sure  that  the  Huns  had  to 
fly  through  the  stream  and  "stop  one"  or 
more.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  simple  air  barrage 
of  machine-gun  bullets. 

With  the  plan  perfected,  the  two  enthusi- 
asts waited  quite  impatiently  for  the  next 
strafe.    Fortunately  the  moon  was  up  fairly 


AN  AIR  BARRAGE  123 

early,  so  that  now  there  was  no  need  to  sit 
up  late  for  the  shoot,  and  the  second  night 
after  the  preparations  were  complete,  to  the 
joy  of  Guns  and  the  R.O.  (and  the  discomfort 
of  the  others),  there  was  a  beautiful,  still, 
moonlight  night  with  every  inducement  for 
the  Huns  to  come  along. 

The  two  ate  a  hurried  dinner  with  ears 
cocked  for  the  first  note  of  the  warning 
which  would  sound  when  the  distant  noise  of 
engines  was  first  heard.  Sure  enough  they 
had  just  reached  the  sweets  when  the  signal 
went,  and  the  two  were  up  and  off  before  the 
lights  could  be  extinguished.  They  arrived 
panting  at  their  stations  to  find  the  gun- 
crews all  ready  and  waiting,  made  a  last 
hasty  examination  to  see  everything  was  in 
order,  and  stood  straining  their  ears  for  the 
moment  when  they  reckoned  the  Huns  would 
be  approaching  the  barrage  area,  and  when 
they  judged  the  moment  had  arrived  opened 
a  long  steady  stream  of  fire.  The  drone  of 
the  first  engine  grew  louder,  passed  through 
the  barrage,  and  boomed  on  over  the  'drome 
without  missing  a  beat.    There  came  the  old 


124  FRONT  LINES 

familiar  ''Phe^e-e-w — BANG!  .  .  .  e'-e-e-ew 
— BANG!"  of  a  couple  of  falling  bombs,  and 
the  first  engine  droned  on  and  away.  Two 
minutes  later  another  was  heard,  and  Guns 
and  the  R.O.,  no  degree  disheartened  or  dis- 
couraged by  their  first  failure,  let  go  an- 
other stream  of  lead,  keeping  the  gun-muz- 
zles twitching  up  and  down  as  rapidly  as 
they  could.  The  second  Hun  repeated  the 
performance  of  the  first ;  and  a  third  did  like- 
wise. After  it  was  all  over  Guns  and  the 
R.O.  held  a  council  and  devised  fresh  and 
more  comprehensive  plans,  which  included 
the  use  of  some  extra  guns  taken  from  the 
machines.  For  the  moment  we  may  leave 
them,  merely  mentioning  that  up  to  now  and 
even  in  their  newer  plans  they  entirely  neg- 
lected any  consideration  of  rather  an  impor- 
tant item  in  their  performance,  namely,  the 
ultimate  billet  of  their  numerous  bullets. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  the  defence  it  is 
an  important  and  unpleasant  fact  that  an  air 
barrage  eventually  returns  to  the  ground. 
Guns  and  the  R.O.  had  been  pumping  out 
bullets  at  a  rate  of  some  hundreds  per  min- 


AN  AIR  BARRAGE  125 

ute  eacli,  and  all  those  bullets  after  miss- 
ing their  target  had  to  arrive  somewhere 
on  the  earth.  The  gunners'  interest  in  them 
passed  for  the  moment  as  soon  as  the  bul- 
lets had  failed  to  hit  their  mark,  and  after- 
wards they  came  to  remember  with  amaze- 
ment that  ever  they  could  have  been  so 
idiotically  unconsidering. 

Some  distance  from  the  'drome,  and  in  a 
line  beyond  the  tip  of  the  wood,  there  stood 
a  number  of  Nissen  huts  which  housed  a 
Divisional  Staff,  and  the  inevitable  conse- 
quence was  that  those  up-and-down  twitch- 
ing gun-muzzles  sprayed  showers  of  lead  in 
gusts  across  and  across  the  hutments.  The 
General  Commanding  the  Division  was  in 
the  middle  of  his  dinner  with  about  five  staff 
officers  round  the  table  when  the  first  *' aero- 
plane over"  warning  went  on  this  particular 
night  of  the  new  air  barrage.  The  lights  in 
the  Mess  hut  were  not  extinguished,  because 
full  precautions  had  been  taken  some  nights 
before  to  have  the  small  window-space  fully 
and  closely  screened  against  the  possibility 
of  leakage  of  a  single  ray  of  light.    One  or 


126  FRONT  LINES 

two  remarks  were  made  quite  casually  about 
the  nasty  raiding  habits  of  the  Huns,  but 
since  no  bombs  had  come  near  in  the  earlier 
raids,  and  the  conclusion  was  therefore  rea- 
sonable that  the  Divisional  H.Q.  had  not  been 
located,  nobody  there  worried  much  over  the 
matter,  and  dinner  proceeded. 

They  all  heard  the  drone  of  the  Hun  en- 
gine, and,  because  it  was  a  very  still  night, 
they  heard  it  rather  louder  than  usual.  Some- 
one had  just  remarked  that  they  seemed  to 
be  coming  closer  to-night,  when  the  further 
remarks  were  violently  interrupted  by  a 
clashing  and  clattering  B-hang  .  .  .  hr-r-rip- 
rap,  ha-hang-hang,  the  splintering,  ripping 
sound  of  smashed  wood,  the  crash,  clash 
tinkle  of  a  bottle  burst  into  a  thousand  frag- 
ments on  the  table  under  their  startled  eyes. 
The  barrage  bullets  had  returned  to  earth. 

The  group  at  the  table  had  time  for  no  more 
than  a  pause  of  astonishment,  a  few  exclama- 
tions, a  hasty  pushing  back  of  chairs,  when 
rip-rap-hang-bang-hang  do\\Ti  came  the  sec- 
ond spray  of  bullets  from  those  jerking  muz- 
zles over  on  the  'drome.    Now  a  bullet  hitting 


AN  AIR  BARRAGE  127 

any  solid  object  makes  a  nastj  and  most  dis- 
concerting sort  of  noise;  but  when  it  hits  the 
tin  roof  of  a  Nissen  hut,  tears  through  it  and 
the  wood  lining  inside,  passes  out  again  or 
comes  to  rest  in  the  hut,  the  noises  become 
involved  and  resemble  all  sorts  of  queer 
sounds  from  kicking  a  tea-tray  to  treading  on 
an  empty  match-box.  The  huts  were  solidly 
sand-bagged  up  their  outside  walls  to  a  height 
of  some  feet,  but  had  no  overhead  cover  what- 
ever. The  third  burst  from  Guns  and  the 
E.O.  arrived  on  the  hut  at  exactly  the  same 
moment  as  the  General  and  his  Staff  arrived 
on  the  floor  as  close  as  they  could  get  to  the 
wall  and  the  protecting  sandbags.  They 
stayed  there  for  some  exciting  minutes  while 
Guns  shot  numerous  holes  in  the  roof,  splin- 
tered the  furniture,  and  shot  the  dinner  piece- 
meal off  the  table. 

The  shooting  and  the  hum  of  the  enemy 
engine  ceased  together,  and  the  General  and 
his  Staff  gathered  themselves  off  the  floor 
and  surveyed  the  wreckage  about  them.  ''I 
just  moved  in  time,"  said  the  Brigade-Major, 
and  pointed  to  a  ragged  hole  in  the  seat  of 


128  FRONT  LINES 

his  chair.  ''D'you  suppose  it  was  a  fluke, 
or  have  they  got  this  place  spotted?"  asked 
the  Captain.  "Nasty  mess  of  the  roof,"  said 
someone  else.  The  General  confined  himself 
to  less  coherent  but  much  more  pungent  re- 
marks on  all  Huns  in  general,  and  night- 
raiders  in  particular.  They  seated  them- 
selves, and  the  waiter  was  just  beginning  to 
mop  up  the  smashed  bottle  of  red  wine,  when 
the  distant  hum  of  another  engine  was  heard. 
This  time  the  barraged  ones  reached  the  floor 
just  a  shade  ahead  of  the  first  tearing  burst 
from  Guns  and  the  R.O.,  and  again  they  held 
their  breath  and  cowered  while  the  bullets 
clashed  and  banged  on  the  tin  roof,  smacked 
and  cracked  on  the  ground  outside,  beat  an- 
other noisy  banging  tattoo  across  the  next- 
door  huts.  The  group  stayed  prone  rather 
longer  after  the  ceasing  of  fire  and  engine 
hum,  and  had  little  more  than  risen  to  their 
feet  when  the  third  outbreak  sent  them  fling- 
ing down  into  cover  again. 

After  another  and  very  much  longer  pause 
they  very  gingerly  resumed  their  places  at 
the  table,  sitting  with  chairs  turned  to  posi- 


AN  AIR  BARRAGE  129 

tions  which  would  allow  evacuation  with  the 
least  possible  delay.  The  conversation  for 
the  rest  of  the  dinner  was  conducted  in 
hushed  whispers  and  with  six  pair  of  ears  on 
the  alert  for  the  first  suspicion  of  the  sound 
of  an  approaching  engine.  It  was  agreed  by 
all  that  the  Hun  must  have  them  spotted,  and 
the  only  matter  for  surprise  was  that  some 
of  the  bombs  heard  exploding  in  the  distance 
had  not  been  dropped  on  them.  It  was  also 
agreed  very  unanimously,  not  to  say  emphat- 
ically, that  the  first  job  for  a  party  in  the 
morning  was  the  digging  of  a  solidly  con- 
structed dug-out.  ''Sand-bags  on  the  roof 
might  be  good  enough  for  bullets,"  said  the 
General,  "but  we've  got  to  allow  for  bombs 
next  time,  and  there's  nothing  for  that  but 
a  good  dug-out." 

Someone  suggested  moving  the  H.Q.,  but 
this  was  rejected  since  they  were  busy  at 
the  time,  and  it  would  mean  a  good  deal  of 
time  lost  and  work  dislocated.  The  General 
decided  to  hang  on  for  a  bit  and  see  what 
turned  up. 

Next  morning  dug-outs  were  started  and 


130  FRONT  LINES 

thickisli  weather  the  next  night  prevented 
further  raids  and  allowed  satisfactory  prog- 
ress to  be  made  on  the  shelters.  The  fol- 
lowing night  was  clear  again,  but  dinner 
passed  without  any  alarm,  and  everyone,  ex- 
cept the  Brigade-Major,  who  had  some  ur- 
gent work  to  keep  him  up,  turned  in  early. 

At  about  11.30  p.m.  the  first  Hun  came 
over,  and  at  the  'drome  the  waiting  and  ex- 
pectant Guns  and  E.O.  set  up  their  new  and 
improved  barrage,  with  four  machine-guns 
all  carefully  trained  and  set  to  sweep  over 
the  same  end  of  the  same  wood. 

The  General  was  awakened  by  the  first  tea- 
tray  bang-banging  on  adjacent  tin  roofs,  and, 
without  pausing  to  think,  rolled  out  of  bed 
and  bumped  on  to  the  floor  just  as  a  couple 
of  strays  from  the  outside  edge  of  the  bar- 
rage banged,  ripped,  and  cracked  through 
his  roof  and  walls.  He  crawled  at  top  pace 
to  the  wall,  cursing  his  hardest,  groped  round 
in  the  dark  and  found  a  pair  of  boots  and 
a  British  Warm,  struggled  into  these,  sitting 
on  the  cold  floor  in  his  pyjamas,  while  a  tor- 
nado of  bullets  hailed  and  clashed  and  banged 


AN  AIR  BARRAGE  131 

across  the  Nissen  hut  roofs  of  the  camp.  He 
took  a  quick  chance  offered  by  a  lull  in  the 
firing,  flung  the  door  open,  and  set  off  at  a 
floundering  run  for  the  dug-out.  As  he  dou- 
bled along  the  duckboards  he  heard  the  dron- 
ing roar  of  an  Qngine  coming  closer  and 
closer,  made  a  desperate  spurt,  expecting 
every  moment  to  hear  the  ominous  whistle 
and  resounding  crash  of  a  falling  and  burst- 
ing bomb,  reached  the  dug-out  entrance, 
hurled  himself  through  it,  and  fell  in  a  heap 
on  top  of  the  Brigade-Major  cautiously  feel- 
ing his  way  down  the  dark  steps.  They 
reached  the  bottom  in  a  tumbled  heap  and 
with  a  bump,  their  language  rising  in  a  min- 
gled and  turgid  flow  to  the  delighted  ears  of 
a  Staff-Lieutenant,  shivering  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs  in  his  pyjamas  with  his  breeches 
under  his  arm  and  his  tunic  thrown  round  his 
chilly  shoulders.  But  his  grins  cut  off  short, 
and  he,  too,  hurtled  down  the  steps  as  a  bomb 
burst  a  few  hundred  yards  off  with  a  re- 
sounding and  earth-shaking  crash. 

Sitting  there  in  the  dark  for  the  next  hour 
the  General  meditated  many  things,  including 


132  FRONT  LINES 

the  mysterious  ways  of  air  Huns  who  so  ac- 
curately machine-gunned  his  camp,  and  yet 
dropped  nine  out  of  ten  of  their  bombs  at 
various  distances  up  to  a  full  mile  away 
from  it. 

This  mystery  led  him  next  day  to  diverge 
from  his  way  and  ride  across  the  fields  to  the 
'drome  to  make  a  few  inquiries  into  the  ways 
of  night-fliers.  Guns  was  busy  making  some 
adjustments  to  his  barrage  guns  with  re- 
newed determination  to  bring  a  Hun  down 
some  night.  The  General  saw  him,  and  rode 
over  and  asked  a  few  questions,  and  listened 
with  a  growing  suspicion  darkening  his  brow 
to  Guns'  enthusiastic  description  of  the  bar- 
rage plan.  He  cut  Guns  short  with  an  abrupt 
question,  "Where  do  your  bullets  come 
down?" 

Guns  paused  in  bewilderment,  and  stared 
vacantly  a  moment  at  the  empty  sky.  Some- 
how now  in  daylight  it  seemed  so  very  ob- 
vious the  bullets  must  come  down;  whereas 
shooting  up  into  the  dark  it  had  never  oc- 
curred. The  General  pulled  his  horse  round 
and  rode  straight  over  to  the  Squadron  of- 


AN  AIR  BARRAGE  133 

fice.  There  he  found  the  Major  and  a  map, 
had  the  exact  position  of  the  barrage  guns 
pointed  out  to  him,  and  in  turn  pointed  out 
where  the  H.Q.  camp  lay.  The  R.O.,  who 
was  working  in  the  outer  office,  sat  shivering 
at  the  wrathful  remarks  that  boiled  out  of 
the  next  room  and  ended  with  a  demand  for 
the  presence  of  the  Gunnery  Officer.  The 
R.O.  himself  departed  hurriedly  to  send  him, 
and  then  took  refuge  in  the  hangar  farthest 
removed  from  the  office.  A  sense  of  fair  play 
and  sharing  the  blame  drove  him  reluctantly 
back  to  the  office  in  time  to  hear  the  effective 
close  of  the  General's  remarks. 

* '  Barrage,  sir ! — barrage !  Splashing  thou- 
sands of  bullets  all  over  a  country  scattered 
with  camps.  Are  you  mad,  sir?  Air  bar- 
rage! Go'  bless  your  eyes,  man,  d'you  think 
you're  in  London  that  you  must  go  filling  the 
sky  with  barrages  and  bullets  and  waking 
me  and  every  other  man  within  miles  with 
your  cursed  row.  Suppose  you  had  shot 
someone — suppose  you  have  shot  someone. 
Blank  blank  your  air  barrage.  You'd  bet- 
ter go  back  to  England,  where  you'll  be  in 


134  FRONT  LINES 

the  fasliion  with  your  air  barrages  and  anti- 
aircraft. Am  I  to  be  driven  from  my  bed  on 
a  filthy  cold  night  to  .  .  ."he  spluttered  ex- 
plosively and  stopped  short.  If  the  Division 
heard  the  details  of  his  share  in  the  incident, 
had  the  chance  to  picture  him  racing  for  the 
dug-out,  sitting  shivering  in  scanty  night  at- 
tire, and  add  to  the  picture  as  they'd  cer- 
tainly do,  the  joke  would  easily  outlive  the 
war  and  him.  "That  will  do,  sir,"  he  said 
after  a  brief  pause,  "I'll  have  a  word  with 
your  Major  and  leave  him  to  deal  with  you.'^ 

Guns  came  out  with  his  head  hanging,  to 
join  the  pale-cheeked  R.O.  and  escape  with 
him. 

Ten  minutes  after  a  message  came  to  him 
that  the  General  wanted  him  in  the  C.O.'s 
office,  and  Guns  groaned  and  went  back  to 
hear  his  sentence,  estimating  it  at  anything 
between  "shot  at  dawn"  and  cashiered, 
broke,  and  sent  out  of  the  Service. 

Now,  what  the  CO.  had  said  in  those  ten 
minutes  nobody  ever  knew,  but  Guns  found 
a  totally  different  kind  of  General  awaiting 
him. 


AN  AIR  BARRAGE  135 

''Come  in,"  he  said,  and  after  a  pause  a 
twinkle  came  in  his  eye  as  he  looked  at  the 
dejected,  hangdog  air  of  the  culprit.  "H-m-m! 
You  can  thank  your  CO.  and  the  excellent 
character  he  gives  you,  sir,  for  my  agree- 
ing to  drop  this  matter.  I  think  you  realise 
your  offence  and  won't  repeat  it.  Zeal  and 
keenness  is  always  commendable;  but  please 
temper  it  with  discretion.  I  am  glad  to  know 
of  any  officer  keen  on  his  work  as  I  hear  you 
are;  but  I  cannot  allow  the  matter  to  pass 
entirely  without  punishment  ..."  (Guns 
braced  himself  with  a  mental  ''Now  for  it.") 
"  ...  So  I  order  you  to  parade  at  my  Head- 
quarters at  7.30  to-night,  and  have  dinner 
with  me."  He  paused,  said,  "That'll  do, 
sir,"  very  abruptly,  and  Guns  emerged  in  a 
somewhat  dazed  frame  of  mind. 

He  said,  after  the  dinner,  that  the  punish- 
ment was  much  worse  than  it  sounded. 
' '  Roasting !  I  never  had  such  a  dose  of  chaff- 
ing in  my  life.  Those  red-tabbed  blighters 
.  .  .  and  they  were  all  so  infernally  polite 
with  it  ...  it  was  just  beastly — all  except 
the  General.    My  Lord,  he 's  a  man,  a  proper 


136  FRONT  LINES 

white  man,  a  real  brick.  And  lie  was  as  keen 
to  know  all  about  machine-guns  as  I  am  my- 
self." 

''Well,  you  taught  him  something  about 
them — especially  about  barrages  and  the  re- 
sult of  indirect  fire,"  said  the  Mess,  and, 
"Are  you  going  to  barrage  the  next  Huns?" 

But  on  his  next  barrage  plans,  Guns  in  the 
first  place — the  very  first  and  preliminary 
place — used  a  map,  many  diagrams,  and  end- 
less pages  of  notebooks  in  calculations  on 
where  his  bullets  would  come  down. 


vni 

NIGHTMARE 

Jake  Harding  from  early  childhood  had  suf- 
fered from  a  horribly  imaginative  mind  in 
the  night  hours,  and  had  endured  untold  tor- 
tures from  dreams  and  nightmares.  One  of 
his  most  frequent  night  terrors  was  to  find 
himself  fleeing  over  a  dreary  waste,  strug- 
gling desperately  to  get  along  quickly  and 
escape  Something,  while  his  feet  and  legs 
were  clogged  with  dragging  weights,  and 
dreadful  demons  and  bogies  and  bunyips 
howled  in  pursuit.  This  was  an  odd  dream, 
because  having  been  born  and  brought  up 
in  the  bush  he  had  never  seen  such  a  dreary 
waste  as  he  dreamed  of,  and  had  never  walked 
on  anything  worse  than  dry,  springy  turf  or 
good  firm  road.  There  was  one  night  he 
remembered  for  long  years  when  he  had  a 
specially  intensified  edition  of  the  same 
nightmare.    It  was  when  he  was  laid  up  as 

a  child  with  a  broken  arm,  and  a  touch  of 
137 


138  FRONT  LINES 

fever  on  top  of  it,  and  he  went  through  all 
the  usual  items  of  dreary  waste,  clogged  feet 
trying  to  run,  nowling  demons  in  pursuit, 
and  a  raging,  consuming  throat-drying  fear. 
He  woke  screaming  just  as  he  was  on  the 
point  of  being  seized  and  hurled  into  a  yawn- 
ing furnace  filled  with  flaming  red  fire,  saw  a 
dim  light  burning  by  his  bedside,  felt  a  cool 
hand  on  his  brow,  heard  a  soothing  voice 
murmur,  ''H-sh-sh!  There's  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of.  You're  quite  safe  here.  Go  to 
sleep  again." 

''I'm  glad,  Nursie,"  said  Jake,  "I'm  glad 
I've  waked  up;  I've  had  a  drefful  dream." 

All  that  is  a  long  way  back,  but  it  serves 
to  explain,  perhaps,  why  Long  Jake,  6ft.  3  in. 
in  height,  thin  as  a  lath,  but  muscled  ap- 
parently with  whipcord  and  wire  rope,  known 
throughout  the  regiment  as  a  "hard  case," 
felt  a  curious  and  unaccountable  jerk  back  to 
childhood  in  his  memory  as  he  lay  on  the 
edge  of  a  wet  shell-hole  peering  out  into  the 
growing  grey  light.  "I've  never  been  up 
here  before,"  he  thought  wonderingly,  "and 
I've  never  seen  any  bit  of  front  like  it.    Yet  I 


NIGHTMARE  139 

seem  to  know  it  by  heart."  He  knew  after- 
wards, though  not  then,  that  it  was 
the  ''dreary  waste"  of  past  dreams — a  wide 
spreading  welter  of  flat  ground,  broken  and 
tumbled  and  torn  and  shiny  wet,  seen  dimly 
through  a  misty  haze,  with  nothing  in  sight 
but  a  few  splintered  bare  poles  of  trees. 

But  Long  Jake  did  not  get  much  time  to 
cudgel  his  memory.  It  was  almost  time  for 
the  battalion  to  "go  over  the  top,"  although 
here  to  be  sure  there  was  no  top,  and  the 
going  over  merely  meant  their  climbing  out  of 
the  chain  of  wet  shell-craters  they  occupied, 
and  advancing  across  the  flat  and  up  the  long 
slope.  Both  sides  were  shelling  heavily,  but 
the  British,  as  Jake  could  judge,  by  far  the 
heavier  of  the  two.  The  noise  was  deafening. 
The  thunder  of  the  guns  rose  roaring  and  bel- 
lowing without  an  instant's  break.  Overhead 
the  shells  howled  and  yelled  and  shrieked 
and  whistled  and  rumbled  in  every  conceiv- 
able tone  and  accent  from  the  slow,  lumbering 
moan  and  roll  of  a  passing  electric  tram  to 
the  sharp  rush  of  a  great  bird's  wings.  The 
ground  quaked  to  the  roll  of  the  guns  like  jelly 


140  FRONT  LINES 

in  a  shaken  mould;  out  in  front  of  them  the 
barrage  was  dropping  into  regular  line,  spout- 
ing in  vivid  flame  that  rent  the  twisting  smoke 
veil  quick  instant  after  instant,  flinging  foun- 
tains of  water  and  mud  and  smoke  into  the 
air. 

Jake  heard  no  order  given,  did  not  even 
hear  any  whistle  blown,  but  was  suddenly 
aware  that  dim  figures  were  rising  out  of  the 
shell-holes  to  either  side,  and  moving  slowly 
forward.  He  scrambled  out  of  his  crater 
and  moved  forward  in  hne  with  the  rest. 
They  went  close  up  to  the  line  of  our  burst- 
ing shells,  so  close  that  they  could  see  the 
leaden  hail  splashing  and  whipping  up  the 
wet  ground  before  them,  so  close  that  Jake 
more  than  once  ducked  instinctively  at  the 
vicious  crack  above  his  head  of  one  of  our 
own  shells  bursting  and  flinging  its  tearing 
bullets  forward  and  down.  But  the  line 
pressed  on,  and  Jake  kept  level  with  it;  and 
then,  just  when  it  seemed  that  they  must 
come  into  that  belt  of  leaping,  splashing  bul- 
lets, the  barrage  lifted  forward,  dropped 
again  twenty  or  thirty  yards  ahead  in  another 


NIGHTMARE  141 

wall  of  springing  smokeclouds  and  spurting 
flame. 

Jake  pushed  on.  It  was  terribly  heavy 
going,  and  he  sank  ankle  deep  at  every  step 
in  the  soft,  wet  ground.  It  was  hard,  too, 
to  keep  straight  on,  because  the  whole  surface 
was  pitted  and  cratered  with  holes  that  ran 
from  anything  the  size  of  a  foot-bath  to  a 
chasm  big  enough  to  swallow  a  fair-sized 
house.  Jake  skirted  the  edges  of  the  larger 
holes,  and  plunged  in  and  struggled  up  out 
of  the  smaller  ones.  The  going  was  so  heavy, 
and  it  was  so  hard  to  keep  direction,  that  for 
a  long  time  he  thought  of  nothing  else.  Then  a 
man  who  had  been  advancing  beside  him 
turned  to  him  and  yelled  something  Jake 
could  not  hear,  and  next  instant  lurched  stag- 
gering against  him.  Jake  just  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  wild  terror  in  the  staring  eyes, 
of  the  hand  clutched  about  the  throat,  and 
the  blood  spurting  and  welling  out  between 
the  clenched  fingers,  and  then  the  man  slid 
down  in  a  heap  at  his  feet.  Jake  stooped  an 
instant  with  wild  thoughts  racing  through  his 
mind.    What  was  he  to  do  for  the  man?    How 


142  FRONT  LINES 

did  one  handle — couldn't  stop  bleeding  by  a 
tourniquet  or  even  a  tight  bandage — choke 
the  man  that  way — why'n  blazes  hadn't  the 
ambulance  classes  told  them  how  to  handle  a 
man  with  a  bullet  in  his  throat  I  (The  answer 
to  that  last,  perhaps,  if  Jake  had  only  known, 
being  that  usually  the  man  is  past  handling  or 
helping.) 

Then  before  Jake  could  attempt  anything 
he  knew  the  man  was  dead.  Jake  went  on, 
and  now  he  was  conscious  of  vicious  little 
hisses  and  whutts  and  sharp  slaps  and 
smacks  in  the  wet  ground  about  him,  and 
knew  these  for  bullets  passing  or  striking 
close. 

The  barrage  lifted  again,  this  time  before 
they  were  well  up  on  it,  and  the  line  ploughed 
on  in  pursuit  of  it.  That  was  the  third  lift. 
Jake  tried  to  recall  how  many  times  the  pre- 
tended barrage  had  lifted  in  the  practice  at- 
tacks behind  the  lines,  how  many  yards  there 
were  there  from  their  own  marked  position 
to  the  taped-out  lines  representing  the  Ger- 
man positions. 

Then  through  the  bellowing  of  the  guns. 


NIGHTMARE  143 

the  unceasing  howl  of  the  shells,  the  running 
crashes  of  their  bursts  Jake  heard  a  sharp 
tat-tat-tat,  another  like  an  echo  joining  it, 
another  and  another  until  the  whole  blended 
in  a  hurrying  clatter  and  swift  running  rattle. 
"Machine-guns,"  he  gasped.  "Now  we're 
for  it,"  but  plunged  on  doggedly.  He  could 
see  something  dimly  grey  looming  through 
the  smoke  haze,  with  red  jets  of  fire  sparkling 
and  spitting  from  it  .  .  .  more  spurting  jets 
.  .  .  and  still  more,  both  these  last  lots  seen 
before  he  could  make  out  the  loom  of  the 
block-house  shelters  that  covered  them.  Jake 
knew  where  he  was  now.  These  were  the 
concrete  redoubts,  emplacements,  "pill- 
boxes." But  they  were  none  of  his  business. 
Everyone  had  been  carefully  drilled  in  their 
own  jobs ;  there  were  the  proper  parties  told 
off  to  deal  with  the  pill-boxes;  his  business 
was  to  push  straight  on  past  them,  clearing 
any  Germans  out  of  the  shell-hole  they  might 
be  holding,  then  stop  and  help  dig  some  sort 
of  linked-up  line  of  holes,  and  stand  by  to 
beat  off  any  counter-attack.  So  Jake  went 
steadily  on,  looking  sharply  about  him  for 


144  FRONT  LINES 

any  Germans.  A  rifle  flamed  suddenly  from 
a  couple  of  yards  ahead  of  him,  and  he  felt 
the  wind  of  the  bullet  by  his  face,  thought 
for  a  moment  he  was  blinded  by  the  flash. 
But  as  he  staggered  back  a  bomber  thrust 
past  him  and  threw  straight  and  hard  into 
the  shell-hole  where  the  rifle  had  flashed. 
Jake  saw  a  jumping  sheet  of  flame,  heard  the 
crash  of  the  bomb,  felt  the  shower  of  dirt 
and  wet  flung  from  off  the  crater  lip  in  his 
face,  steadied  himself,  and  plunged  off  after 
the  hurrying  bomber. 

The  next  bit  was  rather  involved,  and  Jake 
was  never  sure  exactly  what  happened.  There 
were  some  grey  figures  in  front  of  him,  scur- 
rying to  and  fro  confusedly,  some  with  long 
coats  flapping  about  their  ankles,  others  with 
only  half  bodies  or  shoulders  showing  above 
tlie  shell-hole  edges.  He  thought  some  were 
holding  their  hands  up ;  but  others — this  was 
too  clear  to  doubt — were  shooting  rapidly 
at  him  and  the  rest  of  the  line,  the  red  tongues 
of  flame  licking  out  from  the  rifles  straight 
at  them.  Jake  dived  to  a  shell  hole  and  be- 
gan  firing   back,   felt   somebody   slide   and 


NIGHTMARE  145 

scramble  down  beside  him,  turned  to  find  the 
bomber  picking  himself  up  and  shaking  a 
blood-dripping  left  hand.  "Come  on,  Jake," 
yelled  the  bomber.  "Eush  'em's  the  game," 
and  went  scrambling  and  floundering  out  of 
the  hole  with  Jake  close  at  his  heels.  There 
was  a  minute's  wild  shooting  and  bombing, 
and  the  rest  of  the  Germans  either  ran,  or 
fell,  or  came  crouching  forward  towards 
them  with  their  empty  hands  high  and  wav- 
ing over  their  heads. 

An  officer  appeared  suddenly  from  some- 
where. ''Come  along.  Push  on!"  he  was 
shouting.  "Bit  further  before  we  make  a 
line  to  hold.  Push  on,"  and  he  led  the  way 
forward  at  a  staggering  trot.  Jake  and  the 
others  followed. 

They  reached  the  wide  flattened  crest  of 
the  slope  they  were  attacking  and  were  push- 
ing on  over  it  when  a  rapid  stutter  of  ma- 
chine-gun fire  broke  out  on  their  left  flank, 
and  a  stream  of  bullets  came  sheeting  and 
whipping  along  the  top  of  the  slope.  The 
line  was  fairly  caught  in  the  bullet-storm, 
and   suffered   heavily   in   the   next   minute. 


146  FRONT  LINES 

There  was  some  shooting  from  shell  holes 
in  front,  too,  but  that  was  nothing  to  the 
galling  fire  that  poured  on  them  from  the 
flank.  Jake  heard  suddenly  the  long,  in- 
sistent scream  of  a  whistle,  looked  round  and 
saw  an  officer  signalling  to  take  cover.  He 
dropped  promptly  into  a  shell  crater,  and, 
hearing  presently  the  bang  of  rifles  round 
him,  peered  out  over  the  edge  for  a  mark  to 
shoot  at.  Out  to  his  left  he  caught  sight  of 
a  sparkle  of  fire,  and  heard  the  rapid  clatter 
of  the  machine-guns.  He  could  just  make 
out  the  rounded  top  of  a  buried  concrete 
emplacement,  and  the  black  slit  that  marked 
the  embrasure,  and  began  to  aim  and  fire 
steadily  and  carefully  at  it.  The  emplace- 
ment held  its  fire  more  now,  but  every  now 
and  then  delivered  a  flickering  string  of 
flashes  and  a  venomous  rat-at-at-at.  Jake 
kept  on  firing  at  it,  glancing  round  every  lit- 
tle while  to  be  sure  that  the  others  were  not 
moving  on  without  him.  The  noisy  banging 
raps  of  close-by  machine-gunning  broke  out 
suddenly,  and  on  Jake  looking  round  from 
his  shell  hole  he  found  a  gun  in  action  not 


NIGHTMARE  147 

more  than  a  dozen  yards  away;  and  while 
he  looked  another  one  began  to  fire  steadily 
from  another  shell  crater  fifty  or  sixty  yards 
farther  along.  Jake  crawled  out  of  his  hole, 
slithered  over  the  rough  ground  and  down 
into  the  crater  where  the  nearest  machine- 
gun  banged  rapidly.  A  sergeant  was  with 
the  team,  and  Jake  bawled  in  his  ear,  *'If 
you'll  keep  pottin'  at  him  every  time  he  opens 
fire,  I'll  try'n  sneak  over  an'  out  him  with 
a  bomb  in  the  letter-box." 

''Please  yerself,"  returned  the  sergeant. 
''My  job's  to  keep  pump  in'  'em  down  'is 
throat  every  time  'e  opens  'is  mouth." 

"Watch  you  don't  plug" me  in  mistake  when 
I  get  there,"  said  Jake,  and  crawled  out  of 
the  hole.  He  ducked  hastily  into  another  as 
he  heard  the  enemy  bullets  spatter  about  him, 
shift  and  begin  to  smack  and  splash  about 
the  gun  he  had  just  left.  That  gun  ceased 
fire  suddenly,  but  the  one  fifty  yards  farther 
round  kept  on  furiously.  "Got  him  in  the 
neck,  I  s'pose,"  said  Jake,  "worse  luck." 

He  had  a  couple  of  Mills'  bombs  in  his 
pockets,  but  added  to  his  stock  from  a  half- 


148  FRONT  LINES 

empty  bucket  he  found  lying  by  a  dead  bomber 
in  a  crater.  He  advanced  cautiously,  wrig- 
gling hurriedly  over  the  dividing  ground  be- 
tween craters,  keeping  down  under  cover  as 
much  as  possible,  working  out  and  then  si- 
dling in  towards  the  red  flashes  that  kept 
spurting  out  at  intervals  from  the  emplace- 
ment. Once  it  seemed  that  the  enemy  gun- 
ners had  spotted  him  as  he  crawled  and  wrig- 
gled from  one  hole  to  another,  and  a  gust 
of  bullets  came  suddenly  ripping  and  whip- 
ping about  him  as  he  hurled  himself  forward 
and  plunged  head  foremost  into  a  crater  with 
his  left  side  tingling  and  blood  trickling  from 
his  left  arm.  He  fingered  the  rent  in  his 
tunic  and  satisfied  himself  that  the  side 
wound  was  no  more  than  a  graze,  the  arm 
one  a  clean  perforation  which  did  not  appear 
to  have  touched  the  bone.  Twice  after  that 
he  heard  the  bullets'  swish-ish-ish  sweeping 
over  his  head,  or  dropping  to  spatter  the  dirt 
flying  from  the  edge  of  a  hole  he  had  reached. 
But  he  worked  steadily  on  all  the  same, 
passed  the  line  of  the  front  and  side  em- 
brasures, and  was  pondering  his  next  move. 


NIGHTMARE  149 

when  a  sudden  rapid  outburst  of  fire  made 
him  lift  his  head  and  peer  out.  A  dozen  men 
had  appeared  suddenly  within  twenty  yards 
of  the  emplacement  and  were  making  as  rapid 
a  dash  for  it  as  the  ground  allowed.  The 
machine-guns  were  hailing  bullets  at  them 
as  hard  as  they  could  fire,  and  man  after 
man  plunged  and  fell  and  rolled  and  squirmed 
into  holes  or  lay  still  in  the  open. 

Jake  did  not  wait  to  see  the  result  of  the 
dash.  He  was  up  and  out  of  his  cover  and 
running  in  himself  as  fast  as  the  wet  ground 
would  allow  him.  He  was  almost  on  the  em- 
placement when  a  gun  slewed  round  and 
banged  a  short  burst  at  him.  He  felt  the 
rush  of  bullets  past  his  face,  a  pluck  at  his 
sleeve  and  shoulder  strap,  a  blow  on  his 
shrapnel  helmet,  made  a  last  desperate  plunge 
forward,  and  scrambled  on  to  the  low  roof. 
Hurriedly  he  pulled  a  bomb  from  his  pocket 
and  jerked  the  pin  out,  when  a  couple  of 
rifles  banged  close  behind  them,  a  bullet 
whipped  past  overhead,  and  another  smacked 
and  ricochetted  screaming  from  the  concrete. 
Jake  twisted,  saw  the  head  and  shoulders  of 


150  FRONT  LINES 

two  men  with  rifles  levelled  over  a  hole,  and 
quick  as  a  flash  hurled  his  bomb.  The  men 
ducked,  and  Jake  drew  the  pin  from  an- 
other bomb  and  lobbed  it  carefully  over  just 
as  the  first  bomb  burst.  The  other  followed, 
exploding  fairly  in  the  hole  and  evidently 
deep  down  since  the  report  was  low  and 
mufifled.  Jake  pulled  another  pin,  and  was 
leaning  over  to  locate  an  embrasure  when 
the  gun  flamed  out  from  it.  Jake  released 
the  spring,  counted  carefully  *'One  and  two 

and  three  and "  leaned  over  and  slammed 

the  bomb  fairly  into  the  slit.  He  had  another 
bomb  out  as  it  burst — well  inside  by  the 
sound  of  it — and  this  time  leaned  over  and 
deliberately  thrust  it  in  through  the  opening. 
He  had  barely  snatched  his  hand  out  when 
it  went  off  with  a  muffled  crash.  Jake  heard 
screams  inside,  and  then  an  instant  later 
loud  calls  behind  him.  He  jerked  round  to 
see  half  a  dozen  arms  waving  from  the  hole 
where  he  had  flung  the  first  bomb.  This,  as 
he  found  after,  was  the  underground  stair 
down  and  up  again  into  the  emplacement, 


NIGHTMARE  151 

and  the  waving  arms  were  in  token  of  the 
garrison's  surrender 

Jake  stood  on  the  roof  and  waved  his  arm, 
while  keeping  a  cautious  eye  on  the  sur- 
renderers,  saw  the  mud-daubed  khaki  figures 
rise  from  their  holes  and  come  scrambling 
forward,  and  sat  down  suddenly,  feeling  un- 
pleasantly faint  and  sickish. 

His  officer's  voice  recalled  him.  ''Well 
done,  lad,  well  done.  This  cursed  thing  was 
fairly  holding  us  up  till  you  scuppered  it. 
We've  got  our  objective  line  now." 

Jake  staggered  to  his  feet. 

''You're  wounded,"  went  on  the  officer. 
"Get  back  out  of  this,  and  give  a  message 
to  anyone  that'll  take  it,  that  we've  got  our 
third  objective  line,  and  want  supports  and 
ammunition  quick  as  possible.  Go  on,  off 
with  you,  now." 

"Eight,  sir!"  said  Jake  with  an  effort, 
and  started  off  back  across  the  shell-torn 
ground  again. 

He  felt  a  bit  dizzy  still — side  hurt  a  heap — 
arm  getting  numb,  too — must  keep  going  and 
get  that  message  through 


152  FRONT  LINES 

A  high-explosive  shrapnel  burst  directly 
overhead,  and  Jake  heard  several  small  pieces 
whip-down  and  one  heavy  bit  splash  thud- 
ding into  the  ground  a  yard  from  his  feet. 
And  this  was  only  the  first  shell  of  many. 
The  Germans  had  seen  that  their  ground 
was  lost,  and  were  beginning  to  barrage  it. 
Jake  staggered  blindly  across  the  broken 
ground,  in  and  out  and  round  the  craters, 
over  sodden  mounds  that  caught  at  his  feet 
and  crumbled  wetly  under  his  tread.  Huge 
clods  of  wet  earth  clung  to  his  feet  and  legs 
and  made  every  step  an  effort.  The  shell 
fire  was  growing  more  and  more  intense, 
thundering  and  crashing  and  hurling  cas- 
cades of  mud  and  splinters  in  every  direc- 
tion, passing  overhead  in  long-drawn  howls 
and  moans  and  yellings,  or  the  short  savage 
screams  and  rush  of  the  nearer  passing.  The 
ground  was  veiled  in  smoke  and  drifting 
haze,  and  stretched  as  far  as  he  could  see 
in  a  dreary  perspective  of  shiny  wet  earth 
and  ragged  holes.  He  felt  that  he'd  never 
cover  it,  never  get  clear  of  these  cursed — 
what    were     they — shells,    bogies,     demons 


NIGHTMAEE  153 

screaming  and  howling  for  his  life.  He 
plunged  into  a  patch  of  low-lying  ground, 
sticky  swamp  that  sank  him  knee  deep  at 
every  step,  that  clutched  and  clung  about  his 
feet  and  held  each  foot  gripped  as  he  dragged 
it  sucking  out  and  swung  it  forward.  He 
wanted  to  run — run — run — but  his  legs  were 
lead — and  the  bogies  were  very  close — and 
now  there  were  dead  men  amongst  his  feet — 
horribly  mud-bedaubed  dead,  half-buried  in 
the  ooze — and  helmets,  and  scattered  packs, 
and  haversacks,  A  festering*  stench  rose 
from  the  slime  he  waded  through.  He  tried 
again  to  run,  but  could  only  stagger  slowly, 
dragging  one  foot  clear  after  the  other.  Once 
he  trod  on  something  he  thought  a  lump  of 
drier  mud,  and  it  squirmed  weakly  under  his 
foot,  and  a  white  face  twisted  round  and 
up,  mouthing  feeble  curses  at  him.  There 
were  other  things,  horrible  things  he  turned 
his  eyes  from  as  he  tried  to  hurry  past — 
and  red  stains  on  the  frothy  green  scum.  He 
reeled  on,  stupid  and  dazed,  with  the  thun- 
derous crashes  of  a  world  shattering  and 
dissolving  about  him,  deafened  by  the  demon 


154  FRONT  LINES 

screeches  and  howlings.  There  were  other 
people  with  him,  some  wandering  aimlessly, 
others  going  direct  the  one  way,  meeting  still 
others  going  the  opposite,  but  all  dragging 
clogged,  weighted  feet.  Some  fell  and  did 
not  rise.  Jake  knew  they  had  been  caught. 
He  saw  two  men  who  were  carrying  some- 
thing, a  stretcher,  stop  and  look  up,  and 
lower  the  stretcher  hastily  and  drop,  one  flat 
on  his  face,  the  other  crouched  low  and  still 
looking  up.  A  spurt  of  red  flame  flung  a  roll- 
ing cloud  of  black  smoke  about  them,  and 
seconds  after  a  flattened  steel  helmet  whis- 
tled down  out  of  the  sky  and  thudded  in 
the  mud  by  Jake.  When  he  came  to  where 
they  had  been  there  was  only  a  hole  with 
blue  and  grey  reek  curling  slowly  up  its 
black  calcined  sides.  Jake  knew  the  three 
had  been  caught,  too — as  he  would  be  caught, 
if  he  didn't  hurry.    He  struggled,  panting. 

They  were  still  yelling  and  howling,  look- 
ing for  him.  Demons,  bogymen — and  here 
was  the  loudest,  and  fiercest,  the  worst  of 
them  all — louder  and  louder  to  a  tremendous 
chorus  of  all  the  noises  devils  ever  made. 


NIGHTMARE  155 

He  was  flinging  himself  down  to  escape  the 
demon  clutch  (thereby  probably  saving  his 
life,  since  the  great  shell  burst  a  bare  score 
yards  away)  when  he  heard  the  thunderous 
clash  of  the  furnace-doors  flung  back,  caught 
a  searing  glimpse  of  the  leaping  red  flames, 
and  was  hurled  headlong. 

As  he  fell  he  tried  to  scream.  He  did 
scream,  but — although  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
gap,  and  thought  it  was  on  the  instant  of  his 
falling — it  was  days  later — a  queer  choking, 
strangled  cry  that  brought  a  cool  hand  on 
his  hot  forehead,  a  quiet  voice  hushing  and 
soothing  him  and  saying  he  was  *'all  right 
now.  ^ ' 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  closed  them  again 
with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  content.  A  low 
light  was  burning  by  his  bed,  the  shadowy 
figure  of  a  woman  bent  over  him,  and  between 
the  opening  and  closing  of  his  eyes,  his  mind 
flicked  back  to  full  fifteen  years. 

"I'm  glad  I  waked,  Nursie,"  he  said 
weakly.  "  I  Ve  had  a  drefful  dream ;  the  very 
dreffulest  I've  ever  had." 


IX 

THE  GILDED  STAFF 

A  TALE  OF  THE  OLD  CONTEMPTIBLES 

Broadly  speaking,  the  average  regimental 
ofificer  and  man  of  the  fighting  units  is  firmly 
convinced  beyond  all  argument  that  a  ' '  Staff 
job"  is  an  absolutely  safe  and  completely 
cmhy'^  one,  that  the  Staff-wallah  always  has 
the  best  of  food  and  drink,  a  good  roof  over 
him,  and  a  soft  bed  to  lie  on,  nothing  to  do 
except  maybe  sign  his  name  to  a  few  papers 
when  he  feels  so  inclined,  and  perhaps  in  a 
casual  and  comfortable  chat  after  a  good 
dinner  decide  on  a  tactical  move,  a  strafe  of 
some  sort,  issue  the  orders  in  a  sort  of  brief 
''Take  Hill  999"  or  "retire  by  Dead  Cow 
Corner  to  Two  Tree  Trench"  style,  and  leave 
the  regiments  concerned  to  carry  on.  Briefly, 
the  opinion  of  the  firing  line  might  be  summed 
up  in  a  short  Credo : 

^  Cushy — easy. 
156 


THE  GILDED  STAFF  157 

"I  believe  the  Staff  is  No  Good. 

*'I  believe  the  Staff  has  the  cushiest  of 
cushy  jobs. 

"I  believe  the  Staff  never  hears  a  bullet 
whistle  or  sees  a  shell  burst  except  through 
a  telescope. 

''I  believe  the  Staff  exists  solely  to  find 
soft  jobs  for  the  wealthy  and  useless  portion 
of  the  aristocracy. 

''I  believe  the  Staff  does  nothing  except 
wear  a  supercilious  manner  and  red  tabs  and 
trimmings. 

''I  believe  the  Staff  is  No  Good." 

As  to  the  average  of  correctness  in  this 
Credo  I  say  nothing,  but  I  can  at  least  show 
that  these  things  are  not  always  thus. 

The  Staff  had  been  having  what  the  Gen- 
eral's youthful  and  irrepressibly  cheerful 
aide-de-camp  called  ''a  hectic  three  days." 
The  Headquarters  signallers  had  been  going 
hard  night  and  day  until  one  of  them  was 
driven  to  remark  bitterly  as  he  straightened 
his  bent  back  from  over  his  instrument  and 
waggled  his  stiffened  fingers  that  had  been 


158  FRONT  LINES 

tapping  the  "buzzer"  for  hours  on  end,  ''I'm 
developin'  a  permanent  hump  on  my  back 
like  a  dog  scrapin'  a  pot,  an'  if  my  fingers 
isn't  to  be  wore  off  by  inches  I'll  have  to 
get  the  farrier  to  put  a  set  of  shoes  on  'em. ' ' 
But  the  signallers  had  some  advantages  that 
the  Staff  hadn't,  and  one  was  that  they  could 
arrange  spells  of  duty  and  at  least  have 
a  certain  time  off  for  rest  and  sleep.  The 
Staff  Captain  would  have  given  a  good  deal 
for  that  privilege  by  about  the  third  night. 
The  worst  of  his  job  was  that  he  had  no 
time  when  he  could  be  sure  of  a  clear  ten 
minutes'  rest.  He  had  messages  brought  to 
him  as  he  devoured  scratch  meals;  he  was 
roused  from  such  short  sleeps  as  he  could 
snatch  lying  fully  dressed  on  a  camp  bed, 
by  telephone  and  telegraph  messages,  or,  still 
worse,  by  horrible  scrawls  badly  written  in 
faint  pencillings  that  his  weary  eyes  could 
barely  decipher  as  he  sat  up  on  his  bed  with 
a  pocket  electric  glaring  on  the  paper;  once 
he  even  had  to  abandon  an  attempt  to  shave, 
wipe  the  lather  from  his  face,  and  hustle  to 
impart  some  information  to  a  waiting  Gen- 


THE  GILDED  STAFF  159 

eral.  A  very  hot  fight  was  raging  along  that 
portion  of  front,  and  almost  every  report 
from  the  firing  line  contained  many  map  ref- 
erences which  necessitated  so  many  huntings 
of  obscure  points  on  the  maps  that  the  mere 
reading  and  understanding  of  a  message 
might  take  a  full  five  or  ten  minutes;  and 
in  the  same  way  the  finding  of  regiments' 
positions  for  the  General's  information  or 
the  sending  of  orders  added  ten-fold  to  the 
map-hunting. 

The  third  day  was  about  the  most  "hectic" 
of  all.  For  the  Captain  it  began  before  day- 
break with  a  call  to  the  telephone  which 
came  just  two  hours  after  he  had  shuffled  and 
shaken  together  the  papers  he  had  been 
working  on  without  a  break  through  the 
night,  pulled  off  his  boots,  blown  out  his  lamp, 
and  dropped  with  a  sigh  of  relief  on  his  bed 
in  a  corner  of  the  room.  It  was  an  urgent 
and  personal  call,  and  the  first  dozen  words 
effectually  drove  the  lingering  sleep  from  the 
Captain's  eyes  and  brain.  '^Yes,  yes,  'heav- 
ily attacked,'  I  got  that;  go  on  .  .  .  no,  I 
don't  think  I  need  to  refer  to  the  map;  I 


160  FRONT  LINES 

very  nearly  know  the  beastly  thing  by  heart 
now  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  Whof  .  .  .  killed 
outright  .  .  .  that's  bad.  .  .  .  Who's  in  com- 
mand now  then  .  .  .  right.  The  Dee  and  Don 
Trenches — wait  a  minute,  which  are  they? 
Oh  yes,  I  remember,  south  from  the  Pigsty 
and  across  to  Stink  Farm  .  .  .  right.  I'll 
pass  it  on  at  once  and  let  you  know  in  five 
minutes  .  .  .  just  repeat  map  references  so 
I  can  make  a  note  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  yes 
.  .  .  right  .  .  .   'Bye." 

The  urgency  of  the  message,  which  told  of 
a  heavy  and  partially  successful  attack  on  the 
Divisional  Front,  wiped  out  any  hope  the 
Captain  might  have  had  of  a  return  to  his 
broken  sleep.  For  the  next  two  hours  his 
mind  was  kept  at  fuU  stretch  reducing  to 
elaborated  details  the  comprehensive  com- 
mands of  the  General,  locating  reserves  and 
supports  and  Battalion  H.Q.s,  exchanging 
long  messages  with  the  Artillery,  collecting 
figures  of  ammunition  states,  available 
strengths,  casualty  returns,  collating  and  sift- 
ing them  out,  reshuffling  them  and  offering 
them  up  to  the  Brigade  Major  or  the  Gen- 


THE  GILDED  STAFF  161 

eral,  absorbing  or  distributing  messages 
from  and  to  concrete  personalities  or  nebu- 
lous authorities  known  widely  if  vaguely 
as  the  D.A.A.G.,  D.A.Q.M.G.,  D.A.D.O.S., 
A.D.M.S.,  C.D.S.,  and  T.,  and  other  strings 
of  jumbled  initials. 

He  washed  in  the  sparing  dimensions  of  a 
canvas  wash-stand,  Field  Service,  x  Pattern, 
deliberately  taking  off  his  coat  and  rolling  up 
his  shirt-sleeves,  and  firmly  turning  a  deaf 
and  soap-filled  ear  to  the  orderly  who  placed 
a  ruled  telephone  message  form  on  his  table 
and  announced  it  urgent.  Afterwards  he  at- 
tended to  the  message,  and  talked  into  the 
telephone  while  his  servant  cleared  one  side 
of  his  table  and  served  plentiful  bacon,  and 
eggs  of  an  unknown  period.  Immediately 
after  this  a  concentrated  bombardment  sud- 
denly developed  on  a  ruined  chateau  some 
three  or  four  hundred  yards  from  the  H.Q. 
farm.  To  the  youthful  aide-de-camp  who  had 
arrived  from  the  outer  dampness  dripping 
water  from  every  angle  of  a  streaming  mack- 
intosh he  remarked  wrathfully  on  the  pros- 
pect of  having  to  move  once  again  in  the 


162  FRONT  LINES 

middle  of  such  beastly  waterfall  weather. 
The  aide  stood  at  the  brown-paper  patched 
window,  chuckling  and  watching  the  shells 
rewreck  the  already  wrecked  chateau. 
''Looks  as  if  their  spies  had  sold  'em  a  pup 
this  time,"  he  said  gleefully.  **I  believe 
they  must  have  been  told  we  were  in  that  old 
ruin  instead  of  here.  Or  they  were  told 
this  place  and  mistook  it  on  the  map  for  the 
chateau.     Eather  a  lark — what!" 

''Confound  the  larks,"  said  the  Captain 
bitterly,  "especially  if  they  come  any  nearer 
this  way.  This  place  is  quite  leaky  and 
draughty  enough  now  without  it  getting  any 
more  shrap  or  splinter  holes  punched  in  it." 

Here  the  Captain  had  a  short  break  from 
his  inside  job,  leaving  another  officer  to  look 
after  that  and  accompanying  the  General  on 
horseback  to  a  conference  with  various  Briga- 
diers, Colonels,  and  Commanding  Officers. 
The  ride  was  too  wet  to  be  pleasant,  and 
at  no  time  could  a  better  pace  than  a  jog 
trot  be  made  because  on  the  road  there  was 
too  much  horse,  foot,  and  wheeled  traffic, 
and  off  the  road  in  the  swimming  fields  it 


THE  GILDED  STAFF  163 

took  the  horses  all  their  time  to  keep  their 
feet. 

The  conference  was  held  under  the  remain- 
ing quarter-roof  of  a  shell-smashed  farm,  and 
the  Captain  listened  and  made  notes  in  a 
damp  book,  afterwards  accompanying  the 
General  on  a  ride  round  to  where  something 
could  be  seen  of  the  position,  and  back  to 
H.Q.  Here,  under  the  General's  direction 
in  consultation  with  the  Brigade  Major,  he 
elaborated  and  extended  his  notes,  drafted 
detailed  directions  for  a  number  of  minor 
moves  next  day,  and  translated  them  into 
terms  of  map-reference  language,  and  a  mul- 
titude of  details  of  roads  to  be  followed  by 
different  units,  billeting  areas,  rationing,  and 
refilling  points,  and  so  on. 

He  made  a  hasty,  tinned  lunch,  and  at  the 
General's  request  set  out  to  find  one  of  the 
Battalion  Headquarters  and  there  meet  some 
C.O.s  and  make  clear  to  them  certain  points 
of  the  dispositions  arranged.  He  went  in  a 
motor,  sped  on  his  way  by  the  cheerful  infor- 
mation of  the  aide  that  the  town  through 
i^hich  he  must  pass  had  been  under  *'a  deuce 


164  FRONT  LINES 

of  a  hot  fire"  all  day,  had  its  streets  full  of 
Jack  Johnson  holes,  and  was  in  a  continual 
state  of  blowins-  up,  falling  down,  or  being 
burnt  out.  "I  was  through  there  this  morn- 
ing," said  the  aide,  ''and  I  tell  you  it  was 
warmish.  Sentry  outside  on  the  road  wanted 
to  stop  me  at  first;  said  he'd  orders  to  warn 
everybody  it  wasn't  safe.  Wasn't  safe,"  re- 
peated the  youth,  chuckling,  ''Lord,  after  I'd 
been  through  there  I'd  have  given  that  sentry 
any  sort  of  a  certificate  of  truthfulness.  It 
was  not  safe." 

The  Captain  went  off  with  his  motor  skat- 
ing from  ditch  to  ditch  down  the  greasy 
road.  The  guns  were  rumbhng  and  banging 
up  in  front,  and  as  the  car  bumped  and  slith- 
ered nearer  to  the  town  the  Captain  could 
hear  the  long  yelling  whistle  and  the  deep 
rolling  crashes  of  heavy  shells  falling  some- 
where in  it.  He  too  was  stopped  at  the  out- 
skirts by  a  sentry  who  held  up  his  hand  to 
the  driver,  and  then  came  and  parleyed  with 
the  Captain  through  the  window.  The  Cap- 
tain impatiently  cut  his  warning  short.  There 
was  no  other  road  that  would  take  him  near 


THE  GILDED  STAFF  165 

the  point  he  desired  to  reach;  he  must  go 
through  the  town ;  he  must  ride  since  he  could 
not  spare  time  to  walk.  He  climbed  out  and 
mounted  beside  the  driver,  with  some  instinc- 
tive and  vaguely  formed  ideas  in  his  mind 
that  if  the  driver  were  hit  he  might  have 
to  take  the  wheel,  that  the  car  might  be  upset 
and  pin  him  underneath,  that  he  might  be 
able  to  assist  in  picking  a  course  through  rub- 
bish and  shell-holes,  to  jump  out  and  clear 
any  slight  obstruction  from  in  front  of  the 
wheels.  The  car  ran  on  slowly  into  the  town. 
Decidedly  the  aide  had  been  right,  except  that 
"warmish"  was  a  mild  word  for  the  state 
of  affairs.  The  Germans  were  flinging  shells 
into  the  town  as  if  they  meant  to  destroy 
it  utterly.  The  main  street  through  was  lit- 
tered with  bricks  and  tiles  and  broken  fur- 
niture ;  dead  horses  were  sprawled  in  it,  some 
limp  and  new  killed  with  the  blood  still  run- 
ning from  their  wounds,  others  with  their 
four  legs  sticking  out  post-stiff  in  the  air; 
in  several  places  there  were  broken-down 
carts,  in  one  place  a  regular  mass  of  them 
piled  up  and  locked  in  a  confused  tangle  of 


166  FRONT  LINES 

broken  wheels,  splintered  shafts,  cut  harness, 
and  smashed  woodwork,  their  contents  spilled 
out  anyhow  and  mixed  up  inextricably  with 
the  wreckage. 

There  was  not  much  traffic  in  the  main 
street,  and  such  as  was  there  was  evidently, 
like  the  Captain  himself,  only  there  because 
no  other  road  offered.  There  were  half  a 
dozen  artillery  ammunition  waggons,  a  few 
infantry  transport  carts,  several  Army  Serv- 
ice Corps  vehicles.  All  of  them  were  moving 
at  a  trot,  the  waggons  rumbling  and  lum- 
bering heavily  and  noisily  over  the  cobble- 
stones, the  drivers  stooped  forward  and  peer- 
ing out  anxiously  to  pick  a  way  between  the 
obstacles  in  their  path.  The  shells  were 
coming  over  continuously,  moaning  and 
howling  and  yelling,  falling  with  tearing 
crashes  amongst  the  houses,  blowing  them 
wall  from  wall,  slicing  corners  off  or  cutting 
a  complete  top  or  end  away,  breaking  them 
down  in  rattling  cascades  of  tiles  and  bricks, 
bursting  them  open  and  flinging  them  high 
and  far  upwards  and  outwards  in  flying  frag- 
ments. As  the  car  crawled  cautiously  through 


THE  GILDED  STAFF  167 

the  debris  that  littered  the  street,  pieces  of 
brick  and  mortar,  whole  or  broken  slates, 
chips  of  wood  and  stone,  pattered  and  rapped 
constantly  down  about  and  on  the  car;  the 
wheels  crunched  and  ground  on  splintered 
glass  from  the  gaping  windows.  A  shell 
roared  down  on  the  street  ahead  of  them, 
burst  thunderously  in  a  vivid  sheet  of  flame 
and  spurting  black  cloud  of  smoke,  an  appall- 
ing crash  that  rolled  and  reverberated  loud 
and  long  up  and  down  the  narrow  street. 
''Go  easy,"  cautioned  the  Captain  as  the 
black  blinding  reek  came  swirling  down  to 
meet  them,  "or  you'll  run  into  the  hole  that 
fellow  made."  The  driver's  face  was  set 
and  white,  and  his  hands  gripped  tight  on 
the  wheel;  the  Captam  had  a  sudden  com- 
punction that  he  had  brought  him,  that  he 
had  not  left  the  car  outside  the  town  and 
walked  through.  They  edged  carefully  past 
the  yawning  shell-crater  with  the  smoke  still 
clinging  and  curling  up  from  its  edges,  and, 
free  of  the  smoke  again,  saw  a  fairly  clear 
stretch  ahead  of  them.  The  Captain  heard 
the  thin  but  rising  whistle  of  another  heavy 


168  FRONT  LINES 

shell  approaching,  and  ''Open  her  out,"  he 
said  quickly,  "and  let  her  rip."  The  driver, 
he  noticed,  for  all  his  white  face  had  his 
nerves  well  under  control,  and  steadily 
caught  the  change  of  gear  on  the  proper  in- 
stant, speeded  up  sharply  but  quite  smoothly. 
The  car  swooped  down  the  clear  stretch,  the 
roar  of  the  shell  growing  louder  and  closer, 
and  just  as  they  reached  and  crammed  the 
brakes  on  to  take  the  corner,  they  heard  the 
shell  crash  down  behind  them.  The  Captain 
leaned  out  and  looked  back,  and  had  a  mo- 
mentary glimpse  of  a  house  on  the  street 
spouting  black  smoke,  dissolving  and  cascad- 
ing down  and  out  across  the  road  in  a  torrent 
of  bricks  and  wreckage.  In  another  two  min- 
utes they  shot  out  clear  of  the  town.  A  mile 
farther  on  a  soldier  warned  them  that  the 
cross-roads  were  practically  impassable,  the 
roadway  being  broken  and  churned  up  by 
the  heavy  shells  that  all  afternoon  had  been 
and  were  still  at  intervals  falling  upon  it. 
So  the  Captain  left  the  car  and  went  on  a-f oot. 
He  was  nearly  caught  at  the  cross-roads,  a 
shell  fragment  ripping  a  huge  rent  in  his 


THE  GILDED  STAFF  169 

mackintosh  just  over  his  ribs.  Before  he 
reached  the  communication  trenches  too  he 
had  a  highly  uncomfortable  minute  with  light 
high-explosive  shells  bursting  round  him 
while  he  crouched  low  in  a  muddy  shell-crater. 
He  reached  the  meeting-place  at  last,  and 
spent  an  hour  talking  over  plans  and  move- 
ments, and  by  the  time  he  was  ready  to  start 
back  it  WPS  rapidly  growing  dark.  It  was 
completely  dark  before  he  found  his  way 
back  to  the  road  again,  stumbling  over  the 
shell-holed  ground,  slipping  and  floundering 
through  the  mud,  tripping  once  and  falling 
heavily  over  some  strands  of  barbed  wire. 
When  he  found  the  car  again  he  was  so  dirty 
and  draggled  and  dishevelled  and  ragged — 
the  barbed  wire  had  taken  the  cap  from  his 
head  and  dropped  it  in  a  mud  puddle,  and  left 
another  tear  or  two  in  his  mackintosh — so 
smeared  and  plastered  with  mud,  that  his 
driver  at  first  failed  to  recognise  him.  In 
the  town  he  found  parties  of  the  Sappers 
filling  up  the  worst  of  the  shell-holes  and 
clearing  away  the  debris  that  blocked  the  road 
where  he  had  seen  the  house  blown  down, 


170  FRONT  LINES 

while  the  shells  still  screamed  up  and  burst 
clattering  over  and  amongst  the  houses,  and 
bullets  and  splinters  whistled  and  sang  over- 
head, clashed  and  rattled  on  the  causeway. 

He  slept  snatchily  through  the  rest  of  the 
journey,  waking  many  times  as  the  car 
bumped  badly,  and  once,  when  it  dropped 
heavily  into  a  shell-hole  and  bounced  out 
again,  flinging  him  bodily  upwards  until 
his  head  and  shoulder  banged  solidly  against 
the  roof,  taking  half  a  minute  to  regain 
his  scattered  wits  and  dissipate  a  wild  dream 
that  the  car  had  been  fairly  hit  by  a  shell. 

And  when  at  last  he  reached  H.Q.,  crawled 
wearily  out  of  the  car,  and  staggered,  half 
asleep  and  utterly  worn  out,  into  his  room, 
he  found  there  the  other  officer  he  had  left 
to  handle  his  work  and  the  youthful  aide 
humped  over  the  table  copying  out  reports. 

''Hullo,"  said  the  senior,  "you're  late.  I 
say,  you  do  look  tucked  up." 

The  Captain  grunted.  "Not  more'n  I 
feel, ' '  he  said,  blinking  at  the  light.  '  *  Thank 
the  Lord  my  job's  over  and  everything  fixed 
and  ready  so  far's  this  end  goes." 


THE  GILDED  STAFF  171 

**  You've  heard,  I  suppose!"  said  the  other. 
"No!  Baddish  news.  Our  left  has  cracked 
and  the  Germ  has  a  slice  of  their  trenches. 
It  upsets  all  our  plans,  and  we've  got  'em 
all  to  make  over  again." 

The  Captain  stared  blankly  at  him.  "All 
to  make  .  .  .  that  means  all  to-day's  work 
to  begin  and  go  through  again.  All  to-day's 
work — well,  I'm  .  .  ." 

The  aide  had  been  eyeing  the  mud-bedaubed 
figure  with  water  dripping  from  the  torn  coat, 
the  sopping  cap  dangling  in  the  dirty  hand, 
the  blue  unshaven  chin  and  red-rimmed  eyes. 
He  giggled  suddenly.  ' '  I  say,  you  know  what 
the  troops  call  the  Staff?"  He  spluttered 
laughter.  ' '  The  Gilded  Staff, ' '  he  said,  point- 
ing at  the  Captain.  * '  Behold — oh,  my  aunt — 
behold  the  Gilded  Staff." 


X 

A  RAID 

For  several  days  our  artillery  had  been  bom- 
barding stretches  of  the  front  German 
trenches  and  cutting  the  wire  entanglements 
out  in  front  of  them  preparatory  to  a  big 
attack.  The  point  actually  selected  for  the 
raid  was  treated  exactly  the  same  as  a  score 
of  other  points  up  and  down  the  line.  By 
day  the  guns  poured  a  torrent  of  shrapnel 
on  the  barbed  wire,  tearing  it  to  pieces,  up- 
rooting the  stakes,  cutting  wide  swathes 
through  it.  Because  the  opposing  lines  were 
fairly  close  together,  our  shells,  in  order  to 
burst  accurately  amongst  and  close  over  the 
wire,  had  to  skim  close  over  our  own  parapet, 
and  all  day  long  the  Forward  Officers 
crouched  in  the  front  trench,  observing  and 
correcting  the  fall  of  their  shells  that  shrieked 
close  over  them  with  an  appalling  rush  of 
savage  sound.    And  while  they  busied  them- 

172 


A  RAID  173 

selves  on  the  wire,  the  howitzers  and  heav- 
ier guns  methodically  pounded  the  front-line 
trench,  the  support  and  communication 
trenches,  and  the  ground  behind  them.  At 
night  the  tempest  might  slacken  at  intervals, 
but  it  never  actually  ceased.  The  guns,  care- 
fully laid  on  ^'registered"  lines  and  ranges 
during  the  day,  continued  to  shoot  with  ab- 
solute accuracy  during  the  darkness — al- 
though perhaps  '^ darkness"  is  a  misleading 
term  where  the  No  Man's  Land  glowed  with 
light  and  flickered  with  dancing  shadows 
from  the  stream  of  flares  that  tossed  con- 
stantly into  the  air,  soaring  and  floating, 
sinking  and  falling  in  balls  of  vivid  light. 
If  no  lights  were  flung  up  for  a  period  from 
the  German  line,  our  front  line  fired  Verey 
pistol  lights,  swept  the  opposing  trench  and 
wire  with  gusts  of  shrapnel  and  a  spattering 
hail  of  machine-gun  bullets  to  prevent  any 
attempt  on  the  enemy's  part  to  creep  out  and 
repair  their  shattered  defences. 

Our  bombardment  had  not  been  carried 
out  unmolested.  The  German  gunners 
''crumped"  the  front  and  support  lines  stead- 


174  FRONT  LINES 

ily  and  systematically,  searched  the  ground 
behind,  and  sought  to  silence  the  destroying 
guns  by  careful  ''counter-battery"  work. 
But  all  their  efforts  could  not  give  pause  to 
our  artillery,  much  less  silence  it,  and  the 
bombardment  raged  on  by  day  and  night  for 
miles  up  and  down  the  line.  It  was  necessary 
to  spread  the  damage,  because  only  by  doing 
so,  only  by  threatening  a  score  of  points,  was 
it  possible  to  mislead  the  enemy  and  prevent 
them  calculating  where  the  actual  raid  was 
to  be  made. 

The  hour  chosen  for  the  raid  was  just  about 
dusk.  There  was  no  extra-special  prepara- 
tion immediately  before  it.  The  guns  con- 
tinued to  pour  in  their  fire,  speeding  it  up  a 
little,  perhaps,  but  no  more  than  they  had 
done  a  score  of  times  in  the  past  twenty- 
four  hours.  The  infantry  clambered  out  of 
their  trench  and  filed  out  through  the  nar- 
row openings  in  their  own  wire  entangle- 
ments, with  the  shells  rushing  and  crashing 
over  them  so  close  that  instinctively  they 
crouched  low  to  give  them  clearance.  Out 
in  front,  and  a  hundred  yards  away,  the 


A  RAID  175 

ground  was  hidden  and  indistinct  under  the 
pall  of  smoke  that  curled  and  eddied  from 
the  bursting  shrapnel,  only  lit  by  sharp, 
quick-vanishing  glare  after  glare  as  the 
shells  burst.  In  the  trench  the  infantry  had 
just  left,  a  Forward  Officer  peered  out  over 
the  parapet,  fingered  his  trench  telephone, 
glanced  at  the  watch  on  his  wrist,  spoke  an 
occasional  word  to  his  battery  checking  the 
flying  seconds,  and  timing  the  exact  moment 
to  ''lift." 

Out  in  front  a  faint  whistle  cut  across 
the  roar  of  fire.  ''They're  off,"  said  the 
Forward  Officer  into  his  'phone,  and  a  mo- 
ment later  a  distinct  change  in  the  note  of 
sound  of  the  overhead  shells  told  that  the 
fire  had  lifted,  that  the  shells  were  passing 
higher  above  his  head,  to  fall  farther  back 
in  the  enemy  trenches  and  leave  clear  the 
stretch  into  which  the  infantry  would  soon 
be  pushing. 

For  a  minute  or  two  there  was  no  change 
in  the  sound  of  battle.  The  thunder  of  the 
guns  continued  steadily,  a  burst  of  rifle  or 
machine-gun    fire    crackled    spasmodically. 


176  FRONT  LINES 

Over  the  open  No  Man's  Land  the  infantry 
pressed  rapidly  as  the  broken  ground  would 
allow,  pressed  on  in  silence,  crouching  and 
dodging  over  and  amongst  the  shell-holes  and 
craters.  Four  German  "crumps"  roared 
down  and  past,  bursting  with  shattering 
roars  behind  them.  A  group  of  light  * '  Whizz- 
bang"  shells  rushed  and  smashed  overhead, 
and  somewhere  out  on  the  flank  an  enemy 
machine-gun  burst  into  a  rapid  stutter  of 
fire,  and  its  bullets  sang  whistling  and  whip- 
ping about  the  advancing  line.  Men  gulped 
in  their  throats  or  drew  long  breaths  of  ap- 
prehension that  this  was  the  beginning  of 
discovery  of  their  presence  in  the  open,  the 
first  of  the  storm  they  knew  would  quickly 
follow.  But  there  were  no  more  shells  for 
the  moment,  and  the  rattle  of  machine-gun 
fire  diminished  and  the  bullets  piped  thinner 
and  more  distant  as  the  gun  muzzle  swept 
round.  The  infantry  hurried  on,  thankful 
for  every  yard  made  in  safety,  knowing  that 
every  such  yard  improved  their  chance  of 
reaching  the  opposing  trench,  of  the  raid  be- 
ing successfully  accomplished. 


A  RAID  177 

Now  they  were  half-way  across,  and  still 
they  were  undiscovered.  But  of  a  sudden  a 
rifle  spat  fire  through  the  curling  smoke;  a 
machine-gun  whirred,  stopped,  broke  out 
again  in  rapid  and  prolonged  fire.  From 
somewhere  close  behind  the  German  line  a 
rocket  soared  high  and  burst  in  a  shower  of 
sparks.  There  was  a  pause  while  the  ad- 
vancing men  hurried  on,  stumbling  forward 
in  silence.  Another  rocket  leaped,  and  be- 
fore its  sparks  broke  downward  the  German 
guns  burst  into  a  deluge  of  fire.  They  swept 
not  only  the  open  ground  and  trenches  where 
the  raiders  were  attacking,  but  far  up  and 
down  the  line.  Eocket  after  rocket  whizzed 
up,  and  to  right  and  left  the  guns  answered 
with  a  fire  barrage  on  thej  British  front 
trench  and  open  ground. 

But  at  the  attacking  point  the  infantry 
were  almost  across  when  the  storm  burst, 
and  the  shells  for  the  most  part  struck  down 
harmlessly  behind  them.  The  men  were  into 
the  fragments  of  broken  wire,  and  the  shat- 
tered parapet  loomed  up  under  their  hands 
a  minute  after  the  first  shell  burst.    Up  to 


178  FRONT  LINES 

this  they  had  advanced  in  silence,  but  now 
they  gave  tongue  and  with  wild  yells  leaped 
at  the  low  parapet,  scrambled  over  and  down 
into  the  trench.  Behind  them  a  few  forms 
twisted  and  sprawled  on  the  broken  ground, 
but  they  were  no  sooner  down  than  running 
stretcher-bearers  pounced  on  them,  lifted  and 
bore  them  back  to  the  shelter  of  their  own 
lines.  The  men  with  the  stretchers  paid  no 
more  heed  to  the  pattering  shrapnel,  the  rush 
and  crack  of  the  shells,  the  hiss  and  whistle 
of  bullets,  than  if  these  things  had  been 
merely  a  summer  shower  of  rain. 

In  the  German  trench  the  raiders  worked 
and  fought  at  desperate  speed,  but  smoothly 
and  on  what  was  clearly  a  settled  and  re- 
hearsed plan.  There  were  few  Germans  to 
be  seen  and  most  of  these  crouched  dazed  and 
helpless,  with  hands  over  their  heads.  They 
were  promptly  seized,  bundled  over  the  par- 
apet, and  told  by  word  or  gesture  to  be  oif. 
They  waited  for  no  second  bidding,  but  ran 
with  heads  stooped  and  hands  above  their 
heads  straight  to  the  British  line,  one  or 
two   men   doubling   after   them   as    guards. 


A  RAID  179 

Some  of  the  prisoners  were  struck  down  by 
their  own  guns'  shell-fire,  and  these  were 
just  as  promptly  grabbed  by  the  stretcher- 
bearers  and  hurried  in  under  cover.  Where 
any  Germans  clung  to  their  weapons  and  at- 
tempted to  resist  the  raiders,  they  were  shot 
down  or  rushed  with  the  bayonet.  Little  par- 
ties of  British  sought  the  communication 
ways  leading  back  to  the  support  trenches, 
forced  a  way  down,  hurling  grenades  over  as 
they  advanced,  halted  at  suitable  spots,  and, 
pulling  down  sandbags  or  anything  available 
to  block  the  way,  took  their  stand  and  beat 
back  with  showers  of  bombs  any  appearance 
of  a  rush  to  oust  them. 

Up  and  down  the  selected  area  of  front- 
line trench  the  raiders  spread  rapidly.  There 
were  several  dug-outs  under  the  parapet,  and 
from  some  of  these  grey-coated  figures 
crawled  with  their  hands  up  on  the  first  sum- 
mons to  surrender.  These  too  were  bundled 
over  the  parapet.  If  a  shot  came  from  the 
black  mouth  of  the  dug-out  in  answer  to  the 
call  to  surrender,  it  was  promptly  bombed. 
At  either  end  of  the  area  of  front  line  marked 


180  FRONT  LINES 

out  as  the  limits  of  the  raid,  strong  parties 
made  a  block  and  beat  off  the  feeble  attacks 
that  were  made  on  them.  There  was  little 
rifle  or  bayonet  work.  Bombs  played  the 
principal  part,  and  the  trench  shook  to  their 
rapid  re-echoing  clashes,  flamed  and  flared 
to  their  bursts  of  fire,  while  overhead  the 
British  shells  still  rushed  and  dropped  a  roar- 
ing barrage  of  fire  beyond  the  raided  area. 

In  five  minutes  all  sign  of  resistance  had 
been  stamped  out,  except  at  one  of  the  com- 
munication-way entrances  and  at  one  end  of 
the  blocked  front  line.  At  both  of  these 
points  the  counter-attack  was  growing 
stronger  and  more  pressing.  At  the  com- 
munication trench  it  was  beaten  back  by 
sheer  weight  of  bombing,  but  at  the  trench 
end,  where  heavy  shells  had  smashed  in  the 
walls,  and  so  rendered  the  fighting  less  con- 
fined to  a  direct  attack,  the  defenders  of 
the  point  were  assailed  from  the  German 
second  line,  man  after  man  fell  fighting 
fiercely,  and  there  looked  to  be  a  danger 
of  the  whole  trench  being  flooded  by  the 
counter-attack.      The    prompt    action    of    a 


A  RAID  181 

young  officer  saved  the  situation.  It  had 
been  no  plan  of  the  raid  to  touch  the  sup- 
port or  second  trench,  but,  ignoring  this  un- 
derstanding, the  officer  gathered  a  handful 
of  men,  climbed  from  the  front  trench,  and 
dashed  across  the  open  to  the  second  one. 
His  party  pelted  the  counter-attackers  mass- 
ing there  with  as  many  bombs  as  they  could 
fling  in  a  few  seconds,  turned  and  scrambled 
back  to  the  front  line,  and  fell  into  the  scuffle 
raging  there  in  a  vigorous  butt-and-bayonet 
onslaught. 

But  now  it  was  time  to  go.  The  object 
of  the  raid  had  been  carried  out,  and  it  was 
risking  all  for  nothing  to  wait  a  moment 
longer.  The  word  was  passed,  and  half  the 
men  climbed  out  and  ran  for  their  own  line. 
A  minute  later  the  remainder  followed  them, 
carrying  the  last  of  their  wounded.  An  offi- 
cer and  two  or  three  men  left  last,  after 
touching  off  the  fuses  connected  up  with 
charges  placed  in  the  first  instance  in  their 
duly  selected  places. 

A  moment  later,  with  a  muffled  report,  a 
broad  sheet  of  fire  flamed  upward  from  the 


182  FRONT  LINES 

trench.  Three  other  explosions  followed  on 
the  heels  of  the  first,  and  a  shower  of  earth 
and  stones  fell  rattling  about  the  ground  and 
on  the  shrapnel-helmets  of  the  retiring  raid- 
ers, and  the  eafth  shuddered  under  their 
feet.  The  German  gunners  slackened  and 
ceased  their  fire,  probably  waiting  to  hear 
from  the  front  what  this  new  development 
meant,  or  merely  checking  instinctively  at 
the  sight  and  sound.  For  a  moment  the  shells 
ceased  to  crash  over  the  open  ground,  the 
raiders  took  advantage  of  the  pause,  and 
with  a  rush  were  back  and  over  their  own 
parapet  again. 

Over  their  heads  the  British  shells  still 
poured  shrieking  and  crashing  without  pause 
as  they  had  done  throughout. 

In  military  phraseology  the  raid  had  been 
entirely  successful,  a  score  of  prisoners  being 
taken,  a  stretch  of  trench  completely  de- 
stroyed, and  few  casualties  sustained.  The 
raiders  themselves  summed  it  up  in  words 
more  terse  but  meaning  the  same — ''a  good 
bag,  and  cheap  at  the  price. '^ 


XI 

A  EOARING  TRADE 

The  ''O.C.  Dump,"  a  young  Second  Lieu- 
tenant of  Artillery,  thumped  the  receiver 
down  disgustedly  on  the  telephone  and  made 
a  few  brief  but  pungent  remarks  on  railways 
and  all  connected  therewith. 

''What's  the  trouble,  Vickers?"  said  a 
voice  at  the  door,  and  the  Lieutenant  wheeled 
to  find  the  Colonel  commanding  the  Ammu- 
nition Column  and  the  dump  standing  just 
inside. 

"I  was  just  going  to  look  for  you,  sir," 
said  Vickers.  ''They've  cut  our  line  again — 
put  two  or  three  heavy  shells  into  that  bit 
of  an  embankment  a  mile  or  so  from  here, 
and  blown  it  to  glory  evidently." 

"I  don't  suppose  the  Engineers  will  take 

long  to  repair  that, ' '  said  the  Colonel.  ' '  They 

can  slap  down  the  metals  and  sleepers  quick 

enough  if  the  embankment  isn't  smashed." 
183 


184  FRONT  LINES 

* '  But  it  is,  sir, ' '  said  Vickers.  * '  I  was  just 
talking  to  Division,  and  they  say  the  trains 
won't  run  in  to-night,  and  that  supplies  will 
come  up  by  lorry.  And  we've  some  heavy 
lots  due  in  to-night,"  he  concluded  despair- 
ingly. 

''Let's  see,"  said  the  Colonel,  and  for  five 
minutes  listened  and  scribbled  figures  while 
Vickers  turned  over  notes  and  indents  and 
'phone  messages  and  read  them  out. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Colonel  reflectively,  when 
they  had  finished.  ''It'll  be  a  pretty  heavy 
job.  But  you  can  put  it  through  all  right, 
Vickers,"  he  went  on  cheerfully.  "It  won't 
be  as  bad  as  that  bit  you  pulled  oif  the  first 
week  on  the  Somme.  I'll  leave  it  to  you, 
but  I'll  be  round  somewhere  if  you  should 
want  me.  When  wiU  the  first  of  the  lorries 
come  along?" 

They  talked  a  few  minutes  longer,  and  then 
the  Colonel  moved  to  the  door.  The  ' '  office ' ' 
was  a  square  shanty  built  of  empty  ammu- 
nition boxes,  with  a  tarpaulin  spread  over 
for  a  roof.  It  was  furnished  with  a  roughly- 
built  deal  table,  littered  with  papers  held  in 


A  ROARING  TRADE  185 

clips,  stuck  on  files,  or  piled  in  heaps,  seats 
made  of  18-pounder  boxes,  a  truckle-bed  and 
blankets  in  one  corner,  a  telephone  on  a 
shelf  beside  the  table.  Light  and  ventilation 
were  provided  by  the  leaving-out  of  odd  boxes 
here  and  there  in  the  building  up  of  the  walls, 
and  by  a  wide  doorway  without  a  door  to  it. 
The  whole  thing  was  light  and  airy  enough, 
but,  because  it  was  one  of  the  hot  spells  of 
summer,  it  was  warm  enough  inside  to  be 
uncomfortable.  Everything  in  the  place — 
table,  papers,  bed,  seats — ^was  gritty  to  the 
touch  and  thick  with  dust. 

The  two  men  stood  in  the  doorway  a  min- 
ute, looking  out  on  the  depleted  stacks  of  am- 
munition boxes  piled  in  a  long  curving  row 
beside  the  roadway  that  ran  in  off  the  main 
road,  swung  round,  and  out  on  to  it  again. 
A  few  men  were  working  amongst  the  boxes, 
their  coats  off  and  their  grey  shirt  sleeves 
rolled  up,  and  a  stream  of  traffic  ran  steadily 
past  on  the  main  road. 

''Pretty  quiet  here  now,"  said  the  Colonel. 
**But,  by  the  sound  of  it,  things  are  moving 


186  FRONT  LINES 

brisk  enough  up  there.    You'll  get  your  turn 
presently,  I  expect." 

''I  expect  so,  sir,"  said  the  Lieutenant; 
''especially  if  the  yarn  is  true  that  we  push 
'em  again  at  daybreak  to-morrow. ' ' 

''Come  over  and  get  your  tea  before  the 
lorries  come  in,  if  you've  time,"  said  the 
Colonel,  and  moved  off. 

The  Lieutenant  stood  a  moment  longer  lis- 
tening to  the  steady  roll  and  vibrating  rum- 
ble of  the  guns  up  in  the  line,  and  then,  at  a 
sharp  birr-r-r  from  the  telephone,  turned 
sharply  into  the  office. 

The  lorries  began  to  arrive  just  after 
sunset,  rumbling  up  the  main  road  and  swing- 
ing off  in  batches  as  there  was  room  for  them 
in  the  curved  crescent  of  track  that  ran 
through  the  dump  and  back  to  the  main  road. 
As  quickly  as  they  were  brought  into  position 
the  dump  working  party  jerked  off  the  tail- 
boards and  fell  to  hauling  the  boxes  of  shell 
out  and  piling  them  in  neat  stacks  along  a 
low  platform  which  ran  by  the  edge  of  the 
dump  track.  The  dump  was  a  distributing 
centre  mainly  for  field  artillery,  so  that  the 


A  ROARING  TRADE  187 

shells  were  IS-pounder  and  45  howitzer,  in 
boxes  just  comfortably  large  enough  for  a 
man  to  lift  and  heave  about.  As  the  light 
failed  and  the  darkness  crept  down,  candle 
lamps  began  to  appear,  flitting  about  amongst 
the  piled  boxes,  dodging  in  and  out  between 
the  lorries,  swinging  down  the  track  to  guide 
the  drivers  and  show  them  the  way  in  one 
by  one.  Vickers  and  the  Army  Service  Corps 
officer  in  charge  of  the  M.T.  lorries  stood  on 
a  stack  of  boxes  midway  round  the  curve, 
or  moved  about  amongst  the  workers  direct- 
ing and  hastening  the  work. 

But  about  an  hour  after  dark  there  came 
some  hasteners  a  good  deal  more  urgent  and 
effective  than  the  offiJcers.  All  afternoon  and 
early  evening  a  number  of  shells  had  been 
coming  over  and  falling  somewhere  out  from 
the  dump,  but  the  faintness  of  their  whistle 
and  sigh,  and  the  dull  thump  of  their  burst, 
told  that  they  were  far  enough  off  not  to  be 
worth  worrying  about.  But  now  there  came 
the  ominous  shriek,  rising  into  a  louder  but 
a  fuller  and  deeper  note,  that  told  of  a  shell 
dropping  dangerously  near  the  listeners.    As 


188  FRONT  LINES 

the  shriek  rose  to  a  bellowing,  vibrating  roar, 
the  workers  amongst  the  boxes  ducked  and 
ran  in  to  crouch  beside  or  under  the  lorries, 
or  flatten  themselves  close  up  against  the 
piles  of  ammunition.  At  the  last  second, 
when  every  man  was  holding  his  breath,  and 
it  seemed  that  the  shell  was  on  the  point  of 
falling  fairly  on  top  of  them,  they  heard  the 
deafening  roar  change  and  diminish  ever  so 
slightly,  and  next  instant  the  shell  fell  with 
an  earth-shaking  crash  just  beyond  the  dump 
and  the  main  road.  Some  of  the  splinters  sang 
and  hummed  overhead,  and  the  workers  were 
just  straightening  from  their  crouched  posi- 
tions and  turning  to  remark  to  one  another, 
when  again  there  came  to  them  the  same 
rising  whistle  and  shriek  of  an  approaching 
shell.  But  this  time,  before  they  could  duck 
back,  the  voice  of  the  **0.C.  Dump,"  mag- 
nified grotesquely  through  a  megaphone,  bel- 
lowed at  them,  ''Gas  masks  at  alert  position 
every  man.     Sharp  now." 

A  good  many  of  the  men  had  stripped  off 
gas  masks  and  coats,  because  the  masks 
swinging  and  bobbing  about  them  were  awk- 


A  ROARING  TRADE  189 

ward  to  work  in,  and  the  night  was  close 
and  heavy  enough  to  call  for  as  little  ham- 
pering clothing  as  possible  in  the  job  of 
heaving  and  hauling  heavy  boxes  about. 

A  word  from  Vickers  to  the  A.S.C.  officer 
explained  his  shout.  *'If  one  of  those  shells 
splashes  down  on  top  of  that  stack  of  gas- 
shells  of  ours,  this  won't  be  a  healthy  locality 
without  a  mask  on."  The  men  must  have 
understood  or  remembered  the  possibility, 
because,  heedless  of  the  roar  of  the  approach- 
ing shell,  they  grabbed  hastily  for  their 
masks  and  hitched  them  close  and  high  on 
their  chests,  or  ran  to  where  they  had  hung 
them  with  their  discarded  tunics,  and  slung 
them  hastily  over  shoulder,  and  ready. 

The  second  shell  fell  short  of  the  dump 
with  another  thunderous  bang  and  following 
shrieks  of  flying  splinters.  Close  after  it 
came  the  voice  of  Vickers  through  his  mega- 
phone shouting  at  the  workers  to  get  a  move 
on,  get  on  with  the  job.  And  partly  because 
of  his  order,  and  partly,  perhaps,  because 
they  could  see  him  in  the  faint  light  of  the 
lantern  he  carried  standing  man-high  and 


190  FRONT  LINES 

exposed  on  top  of  the  highest  stack  of  boxes, 
and  so  absorbed  some  of  that  mysterious  con- 
fidence which  passes  from  the  apparent  ease 
of  an  officer  to  his  men  in  time  of  danger,  they 
fell  to  work  again  energetically,  hauling  out 
and  stacking  the  boxes.  Another  half-dozem 
shells  fell  at  regular  intervals,  and  although 
all  were  uncomfortably  close,  none  actually 
touched  the  dump.  One  man,  an  A.S.C.  mo- 
tor-driver, was  wounded  by  a  flying  splinter, 
and  was  half -led,  half -carried  out  from  the 
dump  streaming  with  blood. 

''Ain't  you  glad.  Bill,"  said  another  A.S.C. 
driver,  as  the  group  passed  his  lorry,  "that 
we're  in  this  Army  Safety  Corps ?"^ 

* '  Not  'arf , ' '  said  Bill.  ' '  There 's  sich  a  fat 
lot  o'  safety  about  it.  Hark  at  that.  .  .  . 
Here  she  comes  again." 

This  time  the  shell  found  its  mark.  The 
crash  of  its  fall  was  blended  with  and  followed 
by  the  rending  and  splintering  of  wood,  a 
scream  and  a  yell,  and  a  turmoil  of  shout' 
ing  voices.    The  dump  officer  bent  down  and 

*A  derisive  nickname  bestowed  by  other  troops  on  the 
A.S.C. 


A  ROARING  TRADE  191 

shouted  to  the  A.S.C.  officer  below  him:  ''In 
the  road  .  .  .  amongst  your  lorries,  I  fancy. 
You'd  better  go'n  look  to  it.  I'll  keep  'em 
moving  here." 

The  A.S.C.  man  went  off  at  the  double 
without  a  word.  He  found  that  the  shell  had 
fallen  just  beside  one  of  the  loaded  lorries 
which  waited  their  turn  to  pull  in  to  the 
dump,  splitting  and  splintering  it  to  pieces, 
lifting  and  hurling  it  almost  clear  of  the 
road.  Some  of  the  ammunition  boxes  had 
been  flung  off.  The  officer  collected  some  of 
his  M.T.  drivers  and  a  few  spare  men,  emp- 
tied the  smashed  lorry,  and  picked  up  the 
scattered  boxes  and  slung  them  aboard  other 
lorries;  and  then,  without  giving  the  men 
time  to  pause,  set  them  at  work  heaving  and, 
hauling  and  levering  the  broken  lorry  clear 
of  the  road,  and  down  a  little  six-foot  sloping 
bank  at  the  roadside.  Another  shell  came 
down  while  they  worked,  but  at  their  instinc- 
tive check  the  officer  sprang  to  help,  shout- 
ing at  them,  and  urging  them  on.  "Get  to 
it.  Come  along.  D'you  want  to  be  here 
all  night?    We  have  to  off-load  all  this  lot 


192  FRONT  LINES 

before  we  pull  out.  I  don't  want  to  wait 
here  having  my  lorries  smashed  up,  if  you 
do.  Come  along  now — all  together."  The 
men  laughed  a  little  amongst  themselves,  and 
came  ''all  together,"  and  laughed  again  and 
gave  little  ironical  cheers  as  the  wrecked 
lorry  slid  and  swayed  and  rolled  lurching 
over  the  bank  and  clear  of  the  road.  The 
officer  was  running  back  to  the  dump  when 
he  heard  the  officer  there  bellowing  for  an- 
other six  lorries  to  pull  in.  He  climbed  to 
the  step  of  one  as  it  rolled  in,  dropped  off 
as  it  halted,  and  hurried  over  to  the  officer 
in  charge. 

''Hark  at  'em,"  said  Vickers,  as  another 
shell  howled  over,  and  burst  noisily  a  hun- 
dred yards  clear.  "They're  laying  for  us  all 
right  this  trip.  Pray  the  Lord  they  don't 
lob  one  into  this  pile — the  gas-shells  espe- 
cially. That  would  fairly  hang  up  the  job; 
and  there  are  Heaven  knows  how  many  bat- 
teries waiting  to  send  in  their  waggons  for 
the  stuff  now." 

"They  got  my  lorry,"  said  the  A.S.C.  man. 
"Wrecked  it  and  killed  the  driver." 


A  ROARING  TRADE  193 

*'Hard  luck,"  said  Vickers.  ''Hasn't 
blocked  the  road,  I  hope?" 

"No;  spilt  the  shells  all  over  the  place, 
but  didn't  explode  any.  We  cleared  the 
road." 

"Don't  forget,"  said  Vickers  anxiously, 
"to  tell  me  if  there's  any  of  the  load  miss- 
ing. It'll  tie  me  up  in  my  figures  abomin- 
ably if  you  deliver  any  short."  He  broke 
off  to  shout  at  the  men  below,  "Get  along 
there.  Move  out  those  empty  ones.  Come 
along,  another  six.  Pass  the  word  for  an- 
other six,  there." 

The  shelling  eased  off  for  a  couple  of  hours 
after  that,  and  by  then  the  last  of  the  lorries 
had  gone,  and  their  place  in  the  road  outside 
and  along  the  dump  track  had  been  taken  by 
long  lines  of  ammunition  waggons  from  the 
batteries  and  the  Divisional  Ammunition 
Column.  Every  officer  or  N.C.O.  who  came  in 
charge  of  a  batch  brought  in  the  same  im- 
perative orders — to  waste  no  minute,  to  load 
up,  and  to  get  to  the  gun  line  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment,  that  action  was  brisk,  and 
the  rounds  were  wanted  urgently.     There 


194  FRONT  LINES 

was  no  need  to  report  that  action  was  brisk, 
because  the  dump  was  quite  near  enough 
to  the  line  for  the  steady,  unbroken  roar 
of  gunfire,  to  tell  its  own  tale.  The  sound 
of  the  field  guns  in  the  advanced  positions 
came  beating  back  in  the  long,  throbbing  roll 
of  drum-fire,  and  closer  to  the  dump,  to  both 
sides  of  it,  in  front  and  rear  of  it,  the  sharp, 
ear-splitting  reports  of  the  heavies  crashed 
at  quick  intervals.  The  dump  was  the  centre 
of  a  whirlwind  of  activity.  The  ammunition 
waggons  came  rumbling  and  bumping  in 
round  the  curved  track,  the  drivers  steering 
in  their  six-horse  teams  neatly  and  cleverly, 
swinging  and  halting  them  so  that  the  tail 
of  each  waggon  was  turned  partly  in  to  the 
piled  boxes,  and  the  teams  edged  slanting 
out  across  the  road.  The  moment  one  halted 
the  drivers  jumped  down  from  the  saddles, 
the  lead  driver  standing  to  his  horses '  heads, 
the  centre  and  wheel  running  to  help  with  the 
work  of  wrenching  open  the  ammunition 
boxes  and  cramming  the  shells  into  the 
pigeon-hole  compartments  of  the  waggons. 
The  instant  a  waggon  was  filled  the  drivers 


A  ROARING  TRADE  195 

mounted  and  the  team  pulled  out  to  make  way 
for  another. 

The  lanterns  perched  on  vantage  points  on 
the  piles  of  boxes  or  swinging  to  and  fro 
amongst  the  teams  revealed  dimly  and  patch- 
ily  a  scene  of  apparent  confusion,  of  jerking 
and  swaying  shadows,  quick  glints  of  light  on 
metal  helmets  and  harness  buckles  and  wheel 
tyres,  the  tossing,  bobbing  heads  of  animals, 
the  rounded,  shadowy  bulk  of  their  bodies, 
the  hurriedly  moving  figures  of  the  men 
stooping  over  the  boxes,  snatching  out  the 
gleaming  brass  and  grey  steel  shells,  tossing 
empty  boxes  aside,  hauling  down  fresh  ones 
from  the  pile.  Here  and  there  a  wet,  sweat- 
ing face  or  a  pair  of  bared  arms  caught  the 
light  of  a  lantern,  stood  out  vividly  for  a 
moment,  and  vanished  again  into  the  shad- 
owed obscurity,  or  a  pair  or  two  of  legs  were 
outlined  black  against  the  light,  and  cast  dis- 
torted wheeling  shadows  on  the  circle  of 
lamp-lit  ground.  A  dim,  shifting  veil  of  dust 
hung  over  everything,  billowing  up  into  thick 
clouds  under  the  churning  hoofs  and  wheels 


196  FRONT  LINES 

as  the  teams  moved  in  and  out,  settling  slowly 
and  hanging  heavily  as  they  halted  and  stood. 

The  dim  white  pile  of  boxes  that  were 
walled  round  the  curve  was  diminishing  rap- 
idly under  the  strenuous  labour  of  the  drivers 
and  working  party;  the  string  of  teams  and 
waggons  in  the  road  outside  kept  moving  up 
steadily,  passing  into  the  dump,  loading  up, 
moving  out  again,  and  away.  Vickers,  the 
officer  in  charge,  was  here,  there,  and  every- 
where, clambering  on  the  boxes  to  watch  the 
work,  shouting  directions  and  orders,  down 
again,  and  hurrying  into  the  office  shanty 
to  grab  the  telephone  and  talk  hurriedly  into 
it,  turning  to  consult  requisition  ** chits"  for 
different  kinds  of  shells,  making  hurried  cal- 
culations and  scribbling  figures,  out  again  to 
push  in  amongst  the  workers,  and  urge  them 
to  hurry,  hurry,  hurry. 

Once  he  ran  back  to  the  office  to  find  the 
Colonel  standing  there.  ''Hullo,  Vickers," 
he  said  cheerfully.  "Doing  a  roaring  trade 
to-night,  aren't  you?" 

**I  just  am,  sir,"  said  Vickers,  wiping  his 


A  KOARING  TRADE  197 

wet  foreliead.  "I'll  be  out  of  Beer-Ex  ^  pres- 
ently if  they  keep  on  rushing  me  for  it  at 
this  rate." 

'  *  Noisy  brute  of  a  gun  that, ' '  said  the  Colo- 
nel, as  a  heavy  piece  behind  them  crashed 
sharply,  and  the  shell  roared  away  overhead 
in  diminishing  howls  and  moans. 

"And  here's  one  coming  the  wrong  way," 
said  Victors  hurriedly.  "Hope  they're  not 
going  to  start  pitching  'em  in  here  again. ' ' 

But  his  hopes  were  disappointed.  The  Ger- 
man gun  or  guns  commenced  another  regu- 
lar bombardment  of  and  round  the  dump. 
Shell  after  shell  whooped  over,  and  dropped 
with  heavy  rolling  c-r-r-umps  on  the  ground, 
dangerously  near  to  the  piled  boxes.  Then 
one  fell  fairly  on  top  of  a  pile  of  shells  with 
an  appalling  crash  and  rending,  splintering 
clatter,  a  spouting  gush  of  evil-smelling  black 
smoke,  and  clouds  of  blinding  dust.  The  pile 
hit  was  flung  helter-skelter,  the  boxes  crash-, 
ing  and  shattering  as  they  fell  and  struck 
heavily  on  the  ground,  the  loose  shells  whirl- 

^  Telephone  language  for  Bx — the  technical  name  for  cer- 
tain shells. 


198  FRONT  LINES 

ing  up  and  out  from  the  explosion,  and 
thumping  and  thudding  on  the  other  piles  or 
in  the  dust. 

At  first  sound  of  the  burst,  or,  in  fact,  a 
second  or  so  before  it,  the  dump  officer  was 
yelling  at  the  pitch  of  his  voice,  over  and 
over  again,  ''Gas  masks  on — gas  masks  on"; 
and  before  the  ripping  and  splintering  crashes 
had  well  finished  he  was  running  hard  to  the 
spot  where  the  shell  had  fallen.  He  freed 
his  own  mask  as  he  ran,  and  slipped  it  over 
his  face,  but  even  before  he  had  pushed  into 
the  drifting  reek  of  the  burst  he  had  snatched 
it  off,  and  was  turning  back,  when  he  found 
the  Colonel  on  his  heels. 

''I  was  afraid  of  those  gas-shells  of  ours, 
sir,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "Pretty  near  'em, 
but  they're  all  right,  and  nothing's  afire,  evi- 
dently." 

''Good  enough,"  said  the  Colonel  quietly. 
"Better  hurry  the  men  at  the  job  again." 

"Masks  off,"  shouted  Vickers.  "All  right 
here.    Masks  off,  and  get  on  with  it,  men." 

The  working  party  and  the  drivers 
snatched  their  masks  off,  and  before  the  dust 


A  ROARING  TRADE  199 

of  the  explosion  had  settled  were  hard  at 
work  again.  But  the  shells  began  to  fall  with 
alarming  regularity  and  in  dangerous  prox- 
imity to  the  dump  and  road  outside.  The 
Colonel  moved  over  to  the  office,  and  found 
Vickers  there  gripping  a  notebook,  a  handful 
of  papers  under  his  arm,  and  talking  into  the 
telephone.  He  broke  off  his  talk  at  sight  of 
the  Colonel. 

' '  One  moment.  Here  he  is  now.  Hold  the 
wire. ' '  He  held  the  receiver  out.  ' '  Will  you 
speak  to  Divisional  H.Q.,  sir?  They're  ask- 
ing about  the  shelling  here." 

The  Colonel  took  the  'phone  and  spoke 
quietly  into  it.  Another  shell  dropped  with 
a  rending  crash  somewhere  outside,  and  Vick- 
ers jumped  for  the  door  and  vanished.  The 
piled  boxes  of  the  ''office"  walls  shivered  and 
rocked,  and  dust  rained  down  on  the  paper- 
strewn  table.  But  the  Colonel  went  on  talk- 
ing, telling  what  the  shelling  was  like  and  how 
heavy  it  was,  the  number  of  waggons  wait- 
ing, and  so  on. 

He  was  putting  the  'phone  down  as  Vickers 
entered  hurriedly  and  reported,  "Just  out- 


200  FRONT  LINES 

side  in  the  road,  sir.  Did  in  a  waggon  and 
team  and  two  drivers." 

'  *  We  've  got  to  carry  on  as  long  as  we  can, 
Vickers,"  said  the  Colonel.  *'The  stuff  is 
urgently  wanted  up  there,  and  we  'd  lose  a  lot 
of  time  to  clear  the  teams  out  and  bring  them 
back.'^ 

''Very  good,  sir,"  said  Vickers,  and  van- 
ished again. 

The  shelling  continued.  Most  of  the  shells 
fell  close  to,  but  clear  of,  the  dump,  but  an- 
other hit  a  pile  of  shells,  exploding  none,  but 
setting  a  few  splintered  boxes  on  fire.  The 
fire,  fortunately,  was  smothered  in  a  moment. 
Another  burst  just  at  the  entrance  to  the 
curved  road  through  the  dump,  smashing  an 
ammunition  waggon  to  a  wreck  of  splintered 
woodwork  and  twisted  iron,  blowing  two 
teams  to  pieces,  and  killing  and  wounding 
half  a  dozen  men.  There  was  a  moment's 
confusion,  a  swirl  of  plunging  horses,  a 
squealing  of  braked  wheels,  a  shouting  and 
calling  and  cursing.  But  as  the  smoke  and 
dust  cleared  the  confusion  died  away,  and  in 
five  minutes  the  wrecked  waggon  and  dead 


A  ROARING  TRADE  201 

animals  were  dragged  clear,  and  the  work  was 
in  full  swing  again.  Vickers,  moving  amongst 
the  teams,  heard  two  drivers  arguing  noisily. 
''What  did  I  tell  you?"  one  was  shouting. 
"What  did  I  tell  you!  Didn't  I  say  mules 
would  stand  shell-fire  good  as  any  hosses! 
Here 's  my  pair  never  winked  an  eye. ' ' 

''Winked  a  eye?"  said  the  other  scorn- 
fully. ' '  They  tried  to  do  a  obstacle  race  over 
my  waggon.  An'  they  kicked  sufferin'  Saul 
outer  your  centres  an'  each  other.  Yer  off- 
lead's  near  kicked  the  hin'  leg  off 'n  his  mate, 
anyway. ' ' 

"Kicked?"  said  the  first,  and  then  stopped 
as  his  eye  caught  the  red  gleam  of  flowing 
blood.  "Strewth,  he's  wounded.  Mybloomin' 
donkey's  casualtied.  Whoa,  Neddy;  stan' 
till  I  see  what 's  wrong.  You  '11  get  a  bloomin ' 
wound  stripe  to  wear  for  this,  Neddy.  Whoa, 
you " 

Vickers,  remembering  the  snatch  of  talk, 
was  able  to  tell  the  Colonel  a  moment  later, 
"No,  sir;  the  men  don't  seem  rattled  a  mite; 
and  they're  working  like  good  'uns." 

The  shelling  continued,  but  so  did  the  work. 


202  FRONT  LINES 

The  waggons  continued  to  roll  in,  to  fill  up, 
and  puir  out  again;  the  pile  of  ammunition 
boxes  to  dwindle,  the  heap  of  empty  boxes  to 
grow.  Vickers  scurried  round,  keeping  an 
eye  on  smooth  working,  trying  at  intervals 
to  press  some  of  his  stock  of  gas-shells  on 
any  battery  that  would  take  them.  ' '  I  Ve  fair 
got  wind  up  about  them,"  he  confided  to  one 
waggon-line  officer.  "If  a  shell  hits  them  it 
will  stop  the  whole  blessed  dump  working. 
Then  where  will  your  guns  be  for  shell  I ' ' 

The  shelling  continued,  and  caught  some 
more  casualties.  Vickers  superintended  their 
removal,  wiped  his  hands  on  his  breeches, 
and  went  back  to  his  office  and  his  "returns" 
and  the  worry  of  trying  to  account  for  the 
shells  scattered  by  the  enemy  shell  in  his 
dump.  The  men  worked  on  doggedly  The 
gun-line  wanted  shells,  and  the  gun-line  would 
get  them — unless  or  until  the  dump  blew 
up. 

The  shelling  continued — although,  to  be 
sure,  it  eased  off  at  intervals — ^until  dawn; 
but  by  that  time  the  last  loaded  waggon  had 
departed  and  the  dump  was  almost  empty  of 


A  ROARING  TRADE  203 

shells.  The  German  gunners  were  beaten 
and  the  dump  had  won.  Presently  the  Ger- 
man line  would  feel  the  weight  of  the  dump 's 
work. 

Three  hours  later,  after  a  final  struggle 
with  his  ' '  returns, ' '  Vickers,  dirty  and  dusty, 
grimed  with  smoke  and  ash,  a  stubble  of 
beard  on  his  chin  and  tired  rings  under  his 
eyes,  trudged  to  the  mess  dug-out  for  break- 
fast and  tea — tea,  hot  tea,  especially.  He 
met  the  Colonel,  and  recounted  briefly  the  va- 
rious thousands  of  assorted  shells — high  ex- 
plosive, shrapnel,  lyddite,  and  so  on — he  had 
sent  up  to  the  gun-line  during  the  night.  He 
also  recounted  sorrowfully  the  night's  casu- 
alties amongst  his  dump  party,  and  spoke 
with  a  little  catch  in  his  voice  of  his  dead 
sergeant,  ''the  best  N.C.O.  he'd  ever  known." 

*'A  good  night's  work  well  done,  Vickers," 
said  the  Colonel  quietly. 

*'A  roaring  trade,  sir,  as  you  said,"  an- 
swered Vickers,  with  a  thin  smile.  ''And 
hark  at  'em  up  there  now,"  and  he  nodded 
his  head  towards  the  distant  gun-line.  They 
stood  a  moment  in  the  sunshine  at  the  top  of 


204  FRONT  LINES 

the  dug-out  steps.  Round  them  the  heavies 
still  thundered  and  crashed  and  cracked  sav- 
agely, and  from  the  gun  line  where  the  field 
guns  worked  the  roar  of  sound  came  rolling 
and  throbbing  fiercely  and  continuously. 

''They'll  pay  back  for  what  you  got  last 
night, ' '  said  the  Colonel,  * '  and  some  of  them 
wouldn't  be  able  to  do  it  but  for  your  work 
last  night.'* 

The  ground  under  them  trembled  to  the 
blast  of  a  near-by  heavy  battery,  the  air  vi- 
brated again  to  the  furious  drumming  fire 
that  thundered  back  from  the  front  lines. 

"That's  some  consolation,"  said  Vickers, 
''for  my  sergeant.  Small  profit  and  quick 
returns  to  their  shells ;  the  right  sort  of  motto, 
that,  for  a  roaring  trade." 

The  fire  of  the  gun-line,  rising  to  a  fresh 
spasm  of  fury,  fairly  drowned  the  last  of  his 
words.  "A  proper  roaring  trade,"  he  re- 
peated loudly,  and  nodded  his  head  again  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound. 


XII 

HOME 

If  anybody  had  told  Lieutenant  **Lollie** 
Dutford,  Lieutenant  and  Adjutant  of  the 
Stolidshire  Buffs,  that  he  would  come  one 
day  to  be  glad  to  get  back  to  the  battalion  and 
the  front,  Lollie  would  have  called  that 
prophet  an  unqualified  idiot.  And,  yet,  he 
would  later  have  been  convicted  out  of  his 
own  mouth. 

Lollie  was  a  hardened  veteran  campaigner, 
twenty-two  years  of  age,  and  full  two  years* 
trench-age — which  means  a  lot  more — and  he 
started  to  return  from  his  latest  leave  with 
a  pleasing  consciousness  of  his  own  knowl- 
edge of  the  ropes,  and  a  comforting  belief  that 
he  would  be  able  to  make  his  return  journey 
in  comparative  ease.  Certainly,  the  start 
from  Victoria  Station  at  seven  o'clock  on  a 
drizzling  wet  morning,  which  had  necessi- 
tated his  being  up  at  5.30  a.m.,  had  not  been 

205 


206  FRONT  LINES 

pleasant,  but  even  the  oldest  soldier  has  to 
put  up  with  these  things,  and  be  assured  that 
no  **old  soldiering"  can  dodge  them.  It  an- 
noyed him  a  good  deal  to  find  when  they 
reached  Folkestone  that  the  boat  would  not 
start  until  well  on  in  the  afternoon,  and  that 
he  had  been  dragged  out  of  bed  at  cock-crow 
for  no  other  purpose  than  to  loaf  disconso- 
lately half  a  day  round  a  dead-and-alive 
pleasure  resort.  He  was  irritated  again  when 
he  went  to  have  lunch  in  a  certain  hotel,  to 
have  the  price  of  his  meal  demanded  from 
him  before  he  was  allowed  into  the  dining- 
room.  ''It's  not  only  buying  a  pig  in  a  poke," 
as  he  told  his  chance  table  companion,  "but 
it's  the  beastly  insinuation  that  we're  not  to 
be  trusted  to  pay  for  our  lunch  after  we've 
had  it  that  I  don't  like."  He  also  didn't  like, 
and  said  so  very  forcibly,  the  discovery  that 
there  is  a  rule  in  force  which  prohibits  any 
officer  proceeding  overseas  from  having  any 
intoxicating  liquor  with  his  meal,  although 
any  other  not  for  overseas  that  day  could 
have  what  he  liked.  "If  that's  not  inviting  a 
fellow  to  lie  and  say  he  is  staying  this  side  I 


HOME  207 

dunno  what  is,"  said  Lollie  disgustedly. 
"But  why  should  I  be  induced  to  tell  lies  for 
the  sake  of  a  pint  of  bitter.  And  if  I'm 
trusted  not  to  lie,  why  can't  I  be  trusted  not 
to  drink -too  much.  However,  it's  one  more 
of  their  mysterious  ways  this  side,  I  s  'pose. ' ' 
He  evaporated  a  good  deal  of  his  remaining 
good  temper  over  the  lunch.  "Not  much 
wonder  they  want  their  cash  first,"  he  said; 
^ '  I  haven't  had  enough  to  feed  a  hungry  spar- 
row. ' ' 

Old-soldier  experience  took  him  straight  to 
a  good  place  on  the  boat,  and  room  to  lie  down 
on  a  cushioned  settee  before  it  was  filled  up, 
and  he  spent  the  passage  in  making  up  some 
of  his  early  morning  lost  sleep.  On  arrival 
at  the  other  side  he  found  that  his  train  was 
not  due  to  start  for  up-country  until  after 
midnight — "not  late  enough  to  be  worth  go- 
ing to  bed  before,  and  too  late  to  sit  up  with 
comfort,"  as  he  declared.  He  had  a  good 
dinner  at  the  Officers'  Club,  after  rather  a 
long  wait  for  a  vacant  seat,  but  after  it  could 
find  no  place  to  sit  down  in  the  crowded 
smoke-room  or  reading-rooms.    However,  he 


208  FRONT  LINES 

knew  enough  to  take  liim  round  to  a  populai 
hotel  bar,  where  he  spent  a  couple  of  joyful 
hours  meeting  a  string  of  old  friends  passing 
to  or  from  all  parts  of  "the  line,"  and  swap- 
ping news  and  gossip  of  mutually  known 
places  and  people  up  front.  Lollie  had 
brought  along  with  him  a  young  fellow  he  had 
met  in  the  club.  Bullivant  was  returning 
from  his  first  leave,  and  so  was  rather  ig- 
norant of  * '  the  ropes, ' '  and  had  begged  Lollie 
to  put  him  wise  to  any  wrinkles  he  knew  for 
passing  the  time  and  smoothing  the  journey 
up.  "  'Pon  my  word,"  Lollie  confided  to 
him  after  the  departure  of  another  couple  of 
old  friends,  "it's  almost  worth  coming  back 
to  meet  so  many  pals  and  chin  over  old  times 
and  places." 

"I  don't  like  this  fool  notion  of  no  whisky 
rdowed,"  said  Bullivant.  "Now,  you're  an 
old  bird;  don't  you  know  any  place  we  can 
get  a  real  drink  f" 

' '  Plenty, ' '  said  Lollie.  ' '  If  you  don 't  mind 
paying  steep  for  'em  and  meeting  a  crowd  of 
people  and  girls  I've  no  use  for  myself." 

"  I  'm  on, ' '  replied  Bullivant.    *  *  Lead  me  to 


HOME  209 

it.    But  don't  let's  forget  that  twelve-some- 
thing train." 

They  spent  half  an  hour  in  the  ''place," 
where  Lollie  drank  some  exceedingly  bad 
champagne,  and  spent  every  minute  of  the 
time  in  a  joyful  reunion  with  an  old  school 
chum  he  hadn't  seen  for  years.  Then  he 
searched  Bullivant  out  and  they  departed  for 
the  hotel  to  pick  up  their  kits  and  move  to  the 
station.  At  the  hotel  the  barman  told  him  in 
confidence  that  the  midnight  train  was  can- 
celled, and  that  he  'd  have  to  wait  till  next  day. 
"He's  right,  of  course,"  Lollie  told  Bulli- 
vant. "He  always  gets  these  things  right. 
He  has  stacks  more  information  about  every- 
thing than  all  the  Intelligence  crowd  together. 
If  you  want  to  know  where  your  unit  is  in  the 
line  or  when  a  train  arrives  or  a  boat  leaves, 
come  along  and  ask  Henri,  and  be  sure  you'll 
get  it  right — if  he  knows  you  well  enough; 
but  all  the  same  we  must  go  to  the  station 
and  get  it  officially  that  our  train's  a  wash- 
out to-night."  They  went  there  and  got  it 
officially,  with  the  added  information  that 
they  would  go  to-morrow  night,  same  time, 


210  FRONT  LINES 

but  to  report  to  R.T.O.  (Railway  Transport 
Officer)  at  noon.  There  were  no  beds  at  the 
club  (''Never  are  after  about  tea-time,"  Lol- 
lie  told  Bullivant),  and,  to  save  tramping  in 
a  vain  search  around  hotels,  they  returned 
to  their  barman-information-bureau,  and 
learned  from  him  that  all  the  leading  hotels 
were  full  up  to  the  last  limits  of  settees, 
made-up  beds,  and  billiard  rooms.  LoUie's 
knowledge  saved  them  further  wanderings  by 
taking  them  direct  to  another  "place,"  where 
they  obtained  a  not-too-clean  bedroom.  * '  Not 
as  bad  as  plenty  we  Ve  slept  in  up  the  line, ' ' 
said  Lollie  philosophically;  ''only  I'd  advise 
you  to  sleep  in  your  clothes ;  it  leaves  so  much 
the  less  front  open  to  attack.'' 

They  reported  at  the  station  at  noon  next 
day,  and  were  told  their  train  would  leave 
at  1  p.m.,  and  "change  at  St.  Oswear."  They 
rushed  to  a  near  hotel  and  swallowed  lunch, 
hurried  back  to  the  train,  and  sat  in  it  for 
a.  solid  two  hours  before  it  started.  It  was  long 
after  dark  when  they  reached  St.  Oswear, 
where  they  bundled  out  onto  the  platform  and 
sought   information   as   to    the   connection. 


HOME  211 

They  were  told  it  was  due  in  any  minute, 
would  depart  immediately  after  arrival,  and 
that  anyone  who  had  to  catch  it  must  not 
leave  the  station.  ''Same  old  gag,"  said  Lol- 
lie  when  they  had  left  the  R.T.O.  ' '  But  you 
don't  catch  me  sitting  on  a  cold  platform 
half  the  night.  I've  had  some,  thanks."  For 
the  sum  of  one  franc  down  and  a  further 
franc  on  completion  of  engagement  he  bought 
the  services  of  a  French  boy,  and  led  Bulli- 
vant  to  a  cafe  just  outside.  They  had  a  leis- 
urely and  excellent  dinner  there  of  soup,  ome- 
lette, and  coffee,  and  then  spent  another  hour 
in  comfortable  arm-chairs  until  their  train 
arrived.  Lollie's  boy  scout  reported  twice 
the  arrival  of  trains  for  up  the  line,  but  in- 
vestigation found  these  to  be  the  wrong 
trains,  and  the  two  friends  returned  to  their 
arm-chairs  and  another  coffee.  Their  right 
train  was  also  duly  reported,  and  Lollie  paid 
off  his  scout,  and  they  found  themselves  seats 
on  board. 

''I'm  mighty  glad  I  struck  you,"  said  Bul- 
livant  gratefully.  "I'd  sure  have  worn  my 
soul  and  my  feet  out  tramping  this  platform 


212  FRONT  LINES 

all  these  hours  if  you  hadn't  been  running 
the  deal." 

<<I'ni  getting  up  to  all  these  little  dodges," 
said  Lollie  modestly.  ' '  I  know  the  way  things 
run  this  side  now  a  heap  better 'n  I  do  in 
England." 

But  all  his  knowledge  did  not  save  them  a 
horribly  uncomfortable  night  in  an  over- 
crowded compartment,  and  even  when  Bulli- 
vant  dropped  off  at  his  station  two  others 
got  in.  Lollie  reached  his  station  only  to  be 
told  his  Division  had  moved,  that  to  find  them 
he  must  go  back  by  train  thirty  kilometres, 
change,  and  proceed  to  another  railhead  and 
inquire  there.  He  was  finally  dumped  off  at 
his  railhead  in  the  shivery  dawn — ''always 
seems  to  be  an  appalling  lot  of  daybreak 
work  about  these  stunts  somehow,"  as  he 
remarked  disgustedly — and  had  a  subsequent 
series  of  slow-dragging  adventures  in  his 
final  stages  of  the  journey  to  the  battalion  by 
way  of  a  lift  from  the  supply  officer's  car  and 
a  motor  lorry  to  Refilling  Point,  a  sleep  there 
on  some  hay  bales,  a  further  jolty  ride  on 
the  ration  waggons  towards  the  trenches,  and 


HOME  213 

a  last  tramp  up  with  the  ration  party.  The 
battalion  had  just  moved  in  to  rather  a  quiet 
part  of  the  line,  and  were  occupying  the  sup- 
port trenches,  and  Lollie  found  the  H.Q.  mess 
established  in  a  commodious  dug-out,  very 
comfortably  furnished. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  a  ques- 
tion from  the  CO.,  "and  I  tell  you  I'm  real 
glad  to  be  home  again.  I've  been  kicking 
round  the  country  like  a  lost  dog  for  days, 
and  I  feel  more  unwashed  and  disgruntled 
than  if  I'd  just  come  out  of  a  push." 

The  door-curtain  of  sacking  pushed  aside, 
and  the  Padre  came  in.  "Ha,  Lollie.  Glad 
to  have  you  back  again,"  he  said,  shaking 
hands  warmly.  ' '  Mess  has  been  quite  missing 
you.  Sorry  for  your  own  sake  you're  here,  of 
course,  but " 

"You  needn't  be.  Padre,"  said  Lollie 
cheerfully.  "I  was  just  saying  I'm  glad  to 
be  back.  And  'pon  my  word  it's  true.  It's 
quite  good  to  be  home  here  again." 

"Home!"  said  the  Padre  and  the  Acting- 
Adjutant  together,  and  laughed.  "I  like 
that." 


214  FRONT  LINES 

**Well,  it  is,"  said  Lollie  stoutly.  ''Any- 
way, it  feels  like  it  to  me." 

That  feeling  apparently  was  driven  home 
in  the  course  of  the  next  hour  or  two.  His 
servant  showed  him  to  his  dug-out,  which  he 
was  to  share  with  the  second  in  command, 
had  a  portable  bath  and  a  dixie  full  of  boiling 
water  for  him,  his  valise  spread  on  a  comfort- 
able stretcher-bed  of  wire  netting  on  a 
wooden  frame,  clean  shirt  and  things  laid 
out,  everything  down  to  soap  and  towel  and 
a  packet  of  his  own  pet  brand  of  cigarettes 
ready  to  his  hand.  Lollie  pounced  on  the 
cigarettes.  ''Like  a  fool  I  didn't  take  enough 
to  last  me, ' '  he  said,  lighting  up  and  drawing 
a  long  and  deep  breath  and  exhaling  slowly 
and  luxuriously.  "And  I  couldn't  get  'em 
over  the  other  side  for  love  or  money." 

While  he  stripped  and  got  ready  for  his 
bath,  his  servant  hovered  round  shaking  out 
the  things  he  took  off  and  giving  him  snatches 
of  gossip  about  the  battalion.  Lollie  saw 
him  eyeing  the  exceedingly  dull  buttons  on 
his  tunic  and  laughed.  "Rather  dirty,  aren't 
they?"  he  said.    "I'm  afraid  I  forgot  'em 


HOME  215 

most  of  the  time  I  was  over  there.  And  I 
hate  cleaning  buttons  anyhow;  always  get 
more  of  the  polish  paste  on  the  tunic  than  on 
the  buttons." 

After  his  bath  and  change,  Lollie  wandered 
round  and  had  a  talk  to  different  officers,  to 
his  orderly-room  sergeant,  and  the  officers' 
mess  cook,  inspected  the  kitchen  arrange- 
ments with  interest,  and  discussed  current 
issue  of  rations  and  meals.  ''Glad  you're 
back,  sir,"  said  the  mess  cook.  ''I  did  the 
best  I  could,  but  the  messing  never  seems  to 
run  just  right  when  you  're  away.  I  never  can 
properly  remember  the  different  things  some 
of  them  don't  like." 

The  same  compliment  to  his  mess-catering 
abilities  was  paid  him  at  dinner  that  night. 
' '  Ha,  dinner, ' '  said  the  Padre ;  "  we  can  look 
for  a  return  to  our  good  living  again  now 
that  you're  ho — back  again,  Lollie." 

Lollie  laughed.  "Nearly  caught  you  that 
time,  Padre,"  he  said.  ''You  almost  said 
'home  again,'  didn't  youf"  And  the  Padre 
had  to  confess  he  nearly  did. 

They  had  a  very  pleasant  little  dinner,  and, 


216  FEONT  LINES 

even  if  the  curry  was  mostly  bully  beef  and 
the  wine  was  the  thin,  sharp  claret  of  local 
purchase,  Lollie  enjoyed  every  mouthful  and 
every  minute  of  the  meal.  Several  of  the 
other  officers  of  the  battalion  dropped  in  after 
dinner  on  one  excuse  or  another,  but,  as  Lollie 
suspected,  mainly  to  shake  hands  with  him 
and  hear  any  of  the  latest  from  the  other 
side. 

''There's  a  rum  ration  to-night,"  said  the 
Second,  about  ten.  ''What  about  a  rum 
punch,  Lollie?" 

"I  tell  you  this  is  good,"  said  Lollie  con- 
tentedly a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  as  they 
sat  sipping  the  hot  rum.  "  'Pon  my  word, 
it's  worth  going  away,  if  it's  only  for  the 
pleasure  oftcoming  back." 

The  others  laughed  at  him.  ' '  Coming  back 
home,  eh?"  scoffed  the  Second. 

"Yes,  but  look  here,  'pon  my  word,  it  is 
home, ' '  said  Lollie  earnestly.  ' '  I  tell  you  it 's 
like  going  to  a  foreign  country,  going  to  the 
other  side  now.  There's  so  many  rules  and 
regulations  you  can't  keep  up  with  them. 
You  always  seem  to  want  a  drink,  or  meet  a 


HOME  217 

pal  you'd  like  a  drink  with,  just  in  the  no- 
drink  hours.  In  uniform  you  can't  even  get 
food  after  some  silly  hour  like  nine  or  ten 
o'clock.  Why,  after  the  theatre  one  night, 
when  I  was  with  three  people  in  civvies,  we 
went  to  a  restaurant,  and  I  had  to  sit  hungry 
and  watch  them  eat.  They  could  get  food, 
and  I  couldn  't.  And  one  day  a  pal  didn  't  turn 
up  that  I  was  lunching  at  the  Emperor's, 
and  I  found  I  couldn't  have  any  of  the  things 
I  wanted  most,  because  it  cost  more  than 
3^.  6d.  I'd  set  my  heart  on  a  dozen  natives 
and  a  bit  of  grilled  chicken — you  know  how 
you  do  get  hankering  for  certain  things  after 
a  spell  out  here — ^but  I  had  to  feed  off  poached 
eggs  or  some  idiotic  thing  like  that." 

"But  isn't  there  some  sense  in  that  rule?" 
said  the  Padre.  "Isn't  the  idea  to  prevent 
young  officers  being  made  to  pay  more  than 
they  can  afford?" 

Lollie  snorted.  "Does  it  prevent  it?"  he 
said.  "My  lunch  cost  me  over  fifteen  bob 
rather  than  under  it,  what  with  a  bottle  of 
decent  Burgundy,  and  coffee  and  liqueur,  and 
tip  to  the  waiter,  and  so  on.    And,  anyhow. 


218  FRONT  LINES 

who  but  an  utter  ass  would  go  to  the  Em- 
peror's if  he  couldn't  afford  a  stiff  price  for 
a  meal?  But  it  isn't  only  these  rules  and 
things  over  there  that  makes  it  'coming  home' 
to  come  back  here.  In  England  you're  made 
to  feel  an  outsider.  D  'you  know  I  had  a  mili- 
tary police  fellow  pull  me  up  for  not  carrying 
gloves  in  the  first  hour  of  my  leave  ? ' ' 

The  others  murmured  sympathy.  ''What 
did  you  say,  Lollie?"  asked  the  Acting- Adju- 
tant. 

' '  I  made  him  jump, ' '  said  LoUie,  beaming. 
*'I  was  standing  looking  for  a  taxi,  and  this 
fellow  came  alongside  and  looked  me  up  and 
down.  'Your  gloves  have ,'  he  was  be- 
ginning, when  I  whipped  round  on  him.  'Are 
you  speaking  to  me?'  I  snapped.  'Yessir,' 
he  said,  stuttering  a  bit.  '  Then  what  do  you 
mean  by  not  saluting?'  I  demanded,  and 
sailed  into  him,  and  made  him  stand  to  at- 
tention while  I  dressed  him  down  and  told 
him  I'd  a  good  mind  to  report  him  for  inso- 
lent and  insubordinate  behaviour.  'And, 
now,'  I  finished  up,  'there's  a  brigadier-gen- 
eral just  crossing  the  street,  and  he's  not 


HOME  219 

carrying  gloves.  Go'n  speak  to  him  about  it, 
and  then  come  back,  and  I  '11  give  you  my  card 
to  report  me. '  He  sneaked  off — and  he  didn  't 
go  after  the  general. ' ' 

The  others  laughed  and  applauded.  * '  Good 
stroke."  ''Rather  smart,  Lollie."  "It  is 
rather  sickening." 

*'But  as  I  was  saying,"  went  on  LoUie, 
after  another  sip  at  his  steaming  punch,  "it 
isn't  so  much  these  things  make  a  fellow  glad 
to  be  back  here.  It's  because  this  side  really 
is  getting  to  feel  home-like.  You  know  your 
way  about  Boulogne,  and  all  the  railways,  and 
where  they  run  to  and  from,  better  than  you 
do  lines  in  England.  I  do,  anyhow.  You 
know  what's  a  fair  price  for  things,  and  what 
you  ought  to  pay,  and  you  haven't  the  faint- 
est idea  of  that  in  England.  You  just  pay, 
and  be  sure  you're  usually  swindled  if  they 
know  you're  from  this  side.  Here  you  know 
just  the  things  other  people  know,  and  very 
little  more  and  very  little  less,  and  you're 
interested  in  much  the  same  things.  Over 
there  you  have  to  sit  mum  while  people  talk 
by  the  hour  about  sugar  cards  and  Sinn  Fein, 


220  FEONT  LINES 

and  whether  there'll  be  a  new  Ministry  of 
Coke  and  Coal,  and,  if  so,  who'll  get  the  job; 
and  you  hear  people  grouse,  and  read  letters 
in  the  papers,  about  the  unfair  amusement 
tax,  and  they  pray  hard  for  pouring  rain  so 
it'll  stop  the  Zepps  coming  over — not  think- 
ing or  caring,  I  suppose,  that  it  will  hang 
up  our  Push  at  the  same  time,  or  thinking  of 
us  in  the  wet  shell-holes — and  they  get  agi- 
tated to  death  because  the  Minister  for  For- 
eign Affairs "    Lollie  stopped  abruptly 

and  glanced  round  the  table.  ' '  Can  anybody 
here  tell  me  who  IS  the  Minister  for  Foreign 
Affairs?"  he  demanded.  There  was  a  dead 
silence  for  a  moment  and  an  uneasy  shuffle. 
Then  the  Padre  cleared  his  throat  and  be- 
gan, slowly,  ''Ha,  I  think  it  is " 

Lollie  interrupted.  "There  you  are!"  he 
said  triumphantly.  ' '  None  of  you  know,  and 
you  only  think.  Padre.  Just  what  I'm  say- 
ing. We  don't  know  the  things  they  know 
over  there,  and,  what's  more,  don't  care  a 
rush  about  'em." 

' '  There 's  a  good  deal  in  what  you  say,  Lol- 


HOME  221 

lie,"  said  the  CO.  ''But,  after  all,  Home's 
Home  to  me." 

''I  know,  sir,"  said  the  Second.  **So  it  is 
to  me." 

But  Lollie  fairly  had  the  bit  between  his 
teeth,  although,  perhaps,  the  rum  punch  was 
helping.  "Well,  I  find  this  side  gets  more 
and  more  home  to  me.  Over  there  you  keep 
reading  and  hearing  about  the  pacifist  dan- 
ger, and  every  other  day  there  are  strikes 
and  rumours  of  strikes,  either  for  more 
money  or  because  of  food  shortage — ^makes 
one  wonder  what  some  of  'em  would  say  to 
our  fellows'  bob  a  day  or  twenty-four  hours 
living  on  a  bully  and  biscuit  iron  ration.  I 
tell  you  at  the  end  of  ten  days  over  there  you 
begin  to  think  we've  lost  the  blessed  war  and 
that  it'd  serve  some  of  'em  right  if  we  did. 
Here  we're  only  interested  in  real  things  and 
real  men.  There's  hardly  a  man  I  know  in 
England  now — and  probably  you  're  the  same 
if  you  stop  to  think.  And  I  come  back  here 
and  drop  into  a  smooth  little  routine,  and 
people  I  like,  and  a  job  I  know,  and  talk 
and  ways  I'm  perfectly  familiar  with  and 


222  FRONT  LINES 

at  home  in — ^that^s  the  only  word,  at  home 
in." 

*' Bully  beef  and  bullets  and  Stand  To  at 
dawn,"  murmured  the  Acting- Adjutant. 
**  There  were  two  men  reported  killed  in  the 
trench  to-night." 

''And  they  might  have  been  killed  by  a 
taxi  in  the  Strand  if  they'd  been  there," 
retorted  LoUie. 

' '  Eemember  those  billets  near  Pop  f ' '  asked 

the  Acting- Adjutant.     "Lovely  home  that, 

wasn't  it?" 

The  others  burst  into  laughter.   "Had  you 

there,  Lollie,"  chuckled  the  CO.  "It  was  a 
hole,  eh?"  said  the  Second,  and  guffawed 
again.  "D'you  remember  Madame,  and  the 
row  she  made  because  my  man  borrowed  her 
wash-tub  for  me  to  bath  in,"  said  the  Padre. 
"And  the  struggle  Lollie  had  to  get  a  cook- 
house for  the  mess,  and  fed  us  on  cold  bully 
mainly,"  said  the  CO.,  still  chuckling. 

"Yes,  now,  but  just  hold  on,"  said  Lollie. 
' '  Do  any  of  you  recollect  anything  particular 
about  Blankchester — in  England?" 

There  was  silence  again.    "Didn't  we  halt 


HOME  223 

there  a  night  that  time  we  marched  from 
Blank?"  said  the  CO.  hesitatingly.  "No, 
I  remember,"  said  the  Padre.  "We  halted 
and  lunched  there.  Ha,  Eed  Lion  Inn,  roses 
over  the  porch.  Pretty  place. ' '  The  Second 
evidently  remembered  nothing. 

"You're  right,  sir,"  said  Lollie.  "We 
halted  there  a  night.  The  Red  Lion  village  I 
forget  the  name  of.  Padre,  though  I  remem- 
ber the  place.  Now,  let's  see  if  a  few  other 
places  stir  your  memories."  He  went  over, 
slowly  and  with  a  pause  after  each,  the  names 
of  a  number  of  well-known  towns  of  Eng- 
land and  Scotland.  The  CO.  yawned,  and 
the  others  looked  bored.  "What  are  you  get- 
ting at,  Lollie?"  demanded  the  Acting- Adju- 
tant wearily.  Lollie  laughed.  "Those  are 
'home'  towns,"  he  said,  "and  they  don't 
interest  you  a  scrap.  But  I  could  go  through 
the  list  of  every  town  in  the  North  of  France 
and  Flanders — Ballieul  and  Poperinghe,  and 
Bethune  and  Wipers,  and  Amiens  and  Ar- 
mentieres  and  all  the  rest — and  there  isn't 
one  that  doesn't  bring  a  pleasant  little  homey 
thrill  to  the  sound;  and  not  one  that  hasn't 


224  FRONT  LINES 

associations  of  people  or  times  that  you'll  re- 
member to  your  djdng  day.  Even  that  rotten 
billet  at  Pop  you  remember  and  can  make 
jokes  and  laugh  over — as  you  will  for  the 
rest  of  your  lives.  It's  all  these  things  that 
make  me  say  it's  good  to  be  back  here — 
home, ' '  and  he  stood  up  from  the  table. 

They  all  chaffed  him  again,  but  a  little  less 
briskly  and  with  a  doubt  evidently  dawning 
in  their  minds. 

LoUie  went  off  to  his  bed  presently,  and  the 
others  soon  followed.  The  Second  and  the 
Padre  sat  on  to  finish  a  final  pipe.  "When  the 
Second  went  along  to  the  dug-out  which  Lollie 
was  sharing,  he  went  in  very  quietly,  and 
found  the  candle  burning  by  Lollie 's  bed 
and  Lollie  fast  asleep.  He  was  taking  his 
coat  off  when  Lollie  stirred  and  said  some- 
thing indistinctly.  ''What's  that?"  said  the 
Major.    "Thought  you  were  asleep." 

"It's  good,  0  Lord,  but  it's  good  to  be 
home  again,"  said  Lollie  sleepily,  and  mut- 
tered again.  The  Major  looked  closely  at 
him.  "Talking  in  his  sleep  again,"  he 
thought.       "Poor  lad.     Funny  notion  that 


HOME  225 

about  back  home — here,"  and  he  glanced 
round  the  rough  earth  walls,  the  truckle  bed, 
the  earth  floor,  and  the  candle  stuck  in  a  bot- 
tle.   "Home!    Good  Lord!" 

**.  .  .  So  good  to  be  back  home,"  Lollie 

went  on  .  .  .  "good  to  find  you  here " 

The  Major  "tch-tch-ed"  softly  between  his 
teeth  and  stooped  to  pull  his  boots  off,  and  the 
voice  went  on,  evenly  again:  "That's  the 
best  bit  of  coming  home,  all  that  really  makes 
it  home — just  being  with  you  again — 
dearest."  The  Major  stood  erect  abruptly. 
".  .  .  Some  day  we'll  have  our  own  little 
home  ..."  and  this  time  at  the  end  of  the 
sentence,  clear  and  distinct,  came  a  girl's 
name  .  .  .  "Maisie." 

With  sudden  haste  the  Major  jerked  off  his 
remaining  boot,  blew  out  the  light,  and  tum- 
bled into  bed.  He  caught  a  last  fragment, 
something  about  "another  kiss,  dear,"  before 
he  could  pull  the  blankets  up  and  muffle  them 
tight  about  his  ears  to  shut  out  what  he  had 
neither  right  nor  wish  to  hear.  After  that 
he  lay  thinking  long  and  staring  into  the 
darkness.     "So — that's   it.      Talked   brave 


226  FRONT  LINES 

enough,  too.  I  was  actually  Tjelieving  he 
meant  it,  and  cursing  the  old  war  again,  and 
thinking  what  a  sad  pity  a  fine  youngster 
like  that  should  come  to  feel  a  foreign  country 
home.  Sad  pity,  but" — his  mind  jumped 
ahead  a  fortnight  to  the  next  Push-to-Be — ' '  I 
don't  know  that  it's  not  more  of  a  pity  as  it 
is,  for  her,  and — ^him." 


XIII 

BRING  UP  THE  GUNS 

When  Jack  Duncan  and  Hugh  Morrison  sud- 
denly had  it  brought  home  to  them  that  they 
ought  to  join  the  New  Armies,  they  lost  little 
time  in  doing  so.  Since  they  were  chums  of 
long  standing  in  a  City  office,  it  went  without 
saying  that  they  decided  to  join  and  ''go 
through  it"  together,  but  it  was  much  more 
open  to  argument  what  branch  of  the  Service 
or  regiment  they  should  join. 

They  discussed  the  question  in  all  its  bear- 
ings, but  being  as  ignorant  of  the  Army  and 
its  ways  as  the  average  young  Englishman 
was  in  the  early  days  of  the  war,  they  had 
little  evidence  except  varied  and  contradic- 
tory hearsay  to  act  upon.  Both  being  about 
twenty-five  they  were  old  enough  and  busi- 
ness-like enough  to  consider  the  matter  in  a 
business-like  way,  and  yet  both  were  young 
enough  to  be  influenced  by  the  flavour  of  ro- 

227 


228  FRONT  LINES 

mance  they  found  in  a  picture  they  came 
across  at  the  time.  It  was  entitled  "Bring 
up  the  Guns, ' '  and  it  showed  a  horsed  battery 
in  the  wild  whirl  of  advancing  into  ac- 
tion, the  horses  straining  and  stretching  in 
front  of  the  bounding  guns,  the  drivers 
crouched  forward  or  sitting  up  plying  whip 
and  spur,  the  officers  galloping  and  waving 
the  men  on,  dust  swirling  from  leaping  hoofs 
and  wheels,  whip-thongs  streaming,  heads 
tossing,  reins  flying  loose,  altogether  a  blood- 
stirring  picture  of  energy  and  action,  speed 
and  power. 

"I've  always  had  a  notion,"  said  Duncan 
reflectively,  "that  I'd  like  to  have  a  good 
whack  at  riding.  One  doesn't  get  much 
chance  of  it  in  city  life,  and  this  looks  like  a 
good  chance. ' ' 

"And  I've  heard  it  said,"  agreed  Mor- 
rison, "that  a  fellow  with  any  education 
stands  about  the  best  chance  in  artillery  work. 
We  might  as  well  plump  for  something  where 
we  can  use  the  bit  of  brains  we  've  got. ' ' 

"That  applies  to  the  Engineers  too,  doesn't 
it?"  said  Duncan.    "And  the  pottering  about 


BRING  UP  THE  GUNS  229 

we  did  for  a  time  with  electricity  might  help 
there." 

**Um-m,"  Morrison  agreed  doubtfully,  still 
with  an  appreciative  eye  on  the  picture  of  the 
flying  guns.  "Rather  slow  work  though — 
digging  and  telegraph  and  pontoon  and  that 
sort  of  thing." 

' '  Right-oh, ' '  said  Duncan  with  sudden  deci- 
sion.   ''Let's  try  for  the  Artillery." 

"Yes.  We'll  call  that  settled,"  said  Mor- 
rison ;  and  both  stood  a  few  minutes  looking 
with  a  new  interest  at  the  picture,  already 
with  a  dawning  sense  that  they  "belonged," 
that  these  gallant  gunners  and  leaping  teams 
were  "Ours,"  looking  forward  with  a  little 
quickening  of  the  pulse  to  the  day  when  they, 
too,  would  go  whirling  into  action  in  like  des- 
perate and  heart-stirring  fashion. 

"Come  on,"  said  Morrison.  "Let's  get  it 
over.    To  the  recruiting-office — quick  march. ' ' 

And  so  came  two  more  gunners  into  the 
Royal  Regiment. 

When  the  long,  the  heart-breakingly  long 
period  of  training  and  waiting  for  their  guns, 


230  FRONT  LINES 

and  more  training  and  slow  collecting  of  their 
horses,  and  more  training  was  at  last  over, 
and  the  battery  sailed  for  France,  Morrison 
and  Duncan  were  both  sergeants  and  ' '  Num- 
bers One"  in  charge  of  their  respective  guns; 
and  before  the  battery  had  been  in  France 
three  months  Morrison  had  been  promoted 
to  Battery  Sergeant-Major. 

The  battery  went  through  the  routine  of 
trench  warfare  and  dug  its  guns  into  deep 
pits,  and  sent  its  horses  miles  away  back,  and 
sat  in  the  same  position  for  months  at  a  time, 
had  slack  spells  and  busy  spells,  shelled  and 
was  shelled,  and  at  last  moved  up  to  play  its 
part  in  The  Push. 

Of  that  part  I  don't  propose  to  tell  more 
than  the  one  incident — an  incident  of  ma- 
chine-pattern sameness  to  the  lot  of  many 
batteries. 

The  infantry  had  gone  forward  again  and 
the  ebb-tide  of  battle  was  leaving  the  battery 
with  many  others  almost  beyond  high-water 
mark  of  effective  range.  Preparations  were 
made  for  an  advance.  The  Battery  Comman- 
der went  forward  and  reconnoitred  the  new 


BRING  UP  THE  GUNS  231 

position  the  battery  was  to  move  into,  every- 
thing was  packed  np  and  made  ready,  while 
the  guns  still  continued  to  pump  out  long- 
range  fire.  The  Battery  Commander  came 
in  again  and  explained  everything  to  his  offi- 
cers and  gave  the  necessary  detailed  orders 
to  the  Sergeant-Major,  and  presently  re- 
ceived orders  of  date  and  hour  to  move. 

This  was  in  the  stages  of  The  Push  when 
rain  was  the  most  prominent  and  uncomfort- 
able feature  of  the  weather.  The  gims  were 
in  pits  built  over  with  strong  walls  and  roof- 
ing of  sandbags  and  beams  which  were 
weather-tight  enough,  but  because  the  floors 
of  the  pits  were  lower  than  the  surface  of  the 
ground,  it  was  only  by  a  constant  struggle 
that  the  water  was  held  back  from  draining 
in  and  forming  a  miniature  lake  in  each  pit. 
Round  and  between  the  guns  was  a  mere 
churned-up  sea  of  sticky  mud.  As  soon  as 
the  new  battery  position  was  selected  a  party 
went  forward  to  it  to  dig  and  prepare  places 
for  the  guns.  The  Battery  Commander  went 
off  to  select  a  suitable  point  for  observation 
of  his  fire,  and  in  the  battery  the  remaining 


232  FEONT  LINES 

gunners  busied  themselves  in  preparation  for 
the  move.  The  digging  party  were  away  all 
the  afternoon,  all  night,  and  on  through  the 
next  day.  Their  troubles  and  tribulations 
don't  come  into  this  story,  but  from  all  they 
had  to  say  afterwards  they  were  real  and 
plentiful  enough. 

Towards  dusk  a  scribbled  note  came  back 
from  the  Battery  Commander  at  the  new 
position  to  the  officer  left  in  charge  with  the 
guns,  and  the  officer  sent  the  orderly  straight 
on  down  with  it  to  the  Sergeant-Ma j  or  with 
a  message  to  send  word  back  for  the  teams  to 
move  up. 

"All  ready  here,"  said  the  Battery  Com- 
mander's note.  "Bring  up  the  guns  and  fir- 
ing battery  waggons  as  soon  as  you  can.  I'll 
meet  you  on  the  way. ' ' 

The  Sergeant-Major  glanced  through  the 
note  and  shouted  for  the  Numbers  One,  the 
sergeants  in  charge  of  each  gun.  He  had  al- 
ready arranged  with  the  officer  exactly  what 
was  to  be  done  when  the  order  came,  and  now 
he  merely  repeated  his  orders  rapidly  to  the 
sergeants  and  told  them  to  "get  on  with  it." 


BRING  UP  THE  GUNS  233 

When  the  Lieutenant  came  along  five  minutes 
after,  muffled  to  the  ears  in  a  wet  mackintosh, 
he  found  the  gunners  hard  at  work. 

**I  started  in  to  pull  the  sandbags  clear, 
sir,"  reported  the  Sergeant-Ma j or.  "Right 
you  are, ' '  said  the  Lieutenant.  ' ' Then  you'd 
better  put  the  double  detachments  on  to  pull 
one  gun  out  and  then  the  other.  We  must 
man-handle  'em  back  clear  of  the  trench 
ready  for  the  teams  to  hook  in  when  they 
come  along." 

For  the  next  hour  every  man,  from 
the  Lieutenant  and  Sergeant-Ma  j  or  down, 
sweated  and  hauled  and  slid  and  floundered 
in  slippery  mud  and  water,  dragging  gun 
after  gun  out  of  its  pit  and  back  a  half-dozen 
yards  clear.  It  was  quite  dark  when  they 
were  ready,  and  the  teams  splashed  up  and 
swung  round  their  guns.  A  fairly  heavy 
bombardment  was  carrying  steadily  on  along 
the  line,  the  sky  winked  and  blinked  and 
flamed  in  distant  and  near  flashes  of  gun  fire, 
and  the  air  trembled  to  the  vibrating  roar 
and  sudden  thunder-claps  of  their  discharge, 
the  whine  and  moan  and  shriek  of  the  flying 


234  FRONT  LINES 

shells.  No  shells  had  fallen  near  the  battery 
position  for  some  little  time,  but,  unfortu- 
nately, just  after  the  teams  had  arrived,  a 
German  battery  chose  to  put  over  a  series  of 
five-point-nines  unpleasantly  close.  The 
drivers  sat,  motionless  blotches  of  shadow 
against  the  flickering  sky,  while  the  gunners 
strained  and  heaved  on  wheels  and  drag-ropes 
to  bring  the  trails  close  enough  to  slip  on 
the  hooks.  A  shell  dropped  with  a  crash  about 
fifty  yards  short  of  the  battery  and  the 
pieces  flew  whining  and  whistling  over  the 
heads  of  the  men  and  horses.  Two  more 
swooped  down  out  of  the  sky  with  a  rising 
wail-rush-roar  of  sound  that  appeared  to  be 
bringing  the  shells  straight  down  on  top  of 
the  workers'  heads.  Some  ducked  and 
crouched  close  to  earth,  and  both  shells 
passed  just  over  and  fell  in  leaping  gusts  of 
flame  and  ground-shaking  crashes  beyond 
the  teams.  Again  the  fragments  hissed  and 
whistled  past  and  lumps  of  earth  and  mud 
fell  spattering  and  splashing  and  thumping 
over  men  and  guns  and  teams.  A  driver 
yelped  suddenly,  the  horses  in  another  team 


BRING  UP  THE  GUNS  235 

snorted  and  plunged,  and  then  out  of  the  thick 
darkness  that  seemed  to  shut  down  after  the 
searing  light  of  the  shell-burst  flames  came 
sounds  of  more  plunging  hoofs,  a  driver's 
voice  cursing  angrily,  thrashings  and  splash- 
ings  and  stamping.  "Horse  down  here  .  .  . 
bring  a  light  .  .  .  whoa,  steady,  boy  .  .  . 
Where's  that  light?" 

Three  minutes  later :  ' '  Horse  killed,  driver 
wounded  in  the  arm,  sir,"  reported  the  Ser- 
geant-Major.  "Riding  leader  Number  Two 
gun,  and  centre  driver  of  its  waggon. ' ' 

"Those  spare  horses  near?"  said  the  Lieu- 
tenant quickly.  * '  Right.  Call  up  a  pair ;  put 
'em  in  lead ;  put  the  odd  driver  waggon  cen- 
tre." 

Before  the  change  was  completed  and  the 
dead  horse  dragged  clear,  the  first  gun  was 
reported  hooked  on  and  ready  to  move,  and 
was  given  the  order  to  "Walk  march"  and 
pull  out  on  the  wrecked  remnant  of  a  road 
that  ran  behind  the  position.  Another  group 
of  five-nines  came  over  before  the  others  were 
ready,  and  still  the  drivers  and  teams  waited 


236  FRONT  LINES 

motionless  for  the  clash  that  told  of  the  trail- 
eye  dropping  on  the  hook. 

"Get  to  it,  gunners,"  urged  the  Sergeant- 
Major,  as  he  saw  some  of  the  men  instinc- 
tively stop  and  crouch  to  the  yell  of  the  ap- 
proaching shell.  "Time  we  were  out  of  this." 

"Hear,  bloomin'  hear,"  drawled  one  of 
the  shadowy  drivers.  "An'  if  you  wants  to 
go  to  bed.  Lanky" — to  one  of  the  crouching 
gunners — "just  lemme  get  this  gun  away 
fust,  an'  then  you  can  curl  up  in  that  blanky 
shell- 'ole." 

There  were  no  more  casualties  getting  out, 
but  one  gun  stuck  in  a  shell-hole  and  took  the 
united  efforts  of  the  team  and  as  many  gun- 
ners as  could  crowd  on  to  the  wheels  and 
drag-ropes  to  get  it  moving  and  out  on  to 
the  road.  Then  slowly,  one  by  one,  with  a 
gunner  walking  and  swinging  a  lighted  lamp 
at  the  head  of  each  team,  the  guns  moved  off 
along  the  pitted  road.  It  was  no  road  really, 
merely  a  wheel-rutted  track  that  wound  in 
and  out  the  biggest  shell-holes.  The  smaller 
ones  were  ignored,  simply  because  there  were 
too  many  of  them  to  steer  clear  of,  and  into 


BRING  UP  THE  GUNS  237 

them  the  limber  and  gun  wheels  dropped 
bumping,  and  were  hauled  out  by  sheer  team 
and  man  power. 

It  took  four  solid  hours  to  cover  less  than 
half  a  mile  of  sodden,  spongy,  pulpy,  wet 
ground,  riddled  with  shell-holes,  swimming 
in  greasy  mud  and  water.  The  ground  they 
covered  was  peopled  thick  with  all  sorts  of 
men  who  passed  or  crossed  their  way  singly, 
in  little  groups,  in  large  parties — wounded, 
hobbling  wearily  or  being  carried  back,  par- 
ties stumbling  and  fumbling  a  way  up  to  some 
vague  point  ahead  with  rations  and  ammu- 
nition on  pack  animals  and  pack-men,  the 
remnants  of  a  battalion  coming  out  crusted 
from  head  to  foot  in  slimy  wet  mud,  bowed 
under  the  weight  of  their  packs  and  kits  and 
arms;  empty  ammunition  waggons  and  lim- 
bers lurching  and  bumping  back  from  the 
gun-line,  the  horses  staggering  and  slipping, 
the  drivers  struggling  to  hold  them  on  their 
feet,  to  guide  the  wheels  clear  of  the  worst 
holes;  a  string  of  pack-mules  filing  past, 
their  drivers  dismounted  and  leading,  and 
men  and  mules  ploughing  anything  up  to  knee 


238  FRONT  LINES 

depth  in  the  mud,  flat  pannier-pouches  swing- 
ing and  jerking  on  the  animals'  sides,  the 
brass  tops  of  the  18-pounder  shell-cases  wink- 
ing and  gleaming  faintly  in  the  flickering 
lights  of  the  gun  flashes. 

But  of  all  these  fellow  wayfarers  over  the 
battle-field  the  battery  drivers  and  gunners 
were  hardly  conscious.  Their  whole  minds 
were  so  concentrated  on  the  effort  of  holding 
and  guiding  and  urging  on  their  horses  round 
or  over  the  obstacle  of  the  moment,  a  deeper 
and  more  sticky  patch  than  usual,  an  extra 
large  hole,  a  shattered  tree  stump,  a  dead 
horse,  the  wreck  of  a  broken-down  waggon, 
that  they  had  no  thought  for  anything  out- 
side these.  The  gunners  were  constantly  em- 
ployed manning  the  wheels  and  heaving  on 
them  with  cracking  muscles,  hooking  on  drag- 
ropes  to  one  gun  and  hauling  it  clear  of  a 
hole,  unhooking  and  going  floundering  back 
to  hook  on  to  another  and  drag  it  in  turn 
out  of  its  difficulty. 

The  Battery  Commander  met  them  at  a  bad 
dip  wh^re  the  track  degenerated  frankly  into 
a  mud  bath — and  how  he  found  or  kept  the 


BRING  UP  THE  GUNS  239 

track  or  ever  discovered  them  in  that  acliing 
wilderness  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  war  and 
the  ways  of  Battery  Commanders.  It  took 
another  two  hours,  two  mud-soaked  night- 
mare hours,  to  come  through  that  next  hun- 
dred yards.  It  was  not  only  that  the  mud 
was  deep  and  holding,  but  the  slough  was 
so  soft  at  bottom  that  the  horses  had  no  foot- 
hold, could  get  no  grip  to  haul  on,  could  little 
more  than  drag  their  own  weight  through, 
much  less  pull  the  guns.  The  teams  were 
doubled,  the  double  team  taking  one  gun  or 
waggon  through,  and  then  going  back  for  the 
other.  The  waggons  were  emptied  of  their 
shell  and  filled  again  on  the  other  side  of  the 
slough;  and  this  you  will  remember  meant 
the  gunners  carrying  the  rounds  across  a 
couple  at  a  time,  wading  and  floundering 
through  mud  over  their  knee-boot  tops,  re- 
placing the  shells  in  the  vehicle,  and  wading 
back  for  another  couple.  In  addition  to  this 
they  had  to  haul  guns  and  waggons  through 
practically  speaking  by  man-power,  because 
the  teams,  almost  exhausted  by  the  work  and 
with  little  more  than  strength  to  get  them- 


240  FRONT  LINES 

selves  through,  gave  bare  assistance  to  the 
pull.  The  wheels,  axle  deep  in  the  soft  mud, 
were  hauled  round  spoke  by  spoke,  heaved 
and  yo-hoed  forward  inches  at  a  time. 

When  at  last  all  were  over,  the  teams  had 
to  be  allowed  a  brief  rest — brief  because  the 
guns  must  be  in  position  and  under  cover  be- 
fore daylight  came — and  stood  dejectedly 
with  hanging  ears,  heaving  flanks,  and  trem- 
bling legs.  The  gunners  dropped  prone  or 
squatted  almost  at  the  point  of  exhaustion  in 
the  mud.  But  they  struggled  up,  and  the 
teams  strained  forward  into  the  breast  col- 
lars again  when  the  word  was  given,  and  the 
weary  procession  trailed  on  at  a  jerky  snail's 
pace  once  more. 

As  they  at  last  approached  the  new  posi- 
tion the  gun  flashes  on  the  horizon  were  turn- 
ing from  orange  to  primrose,  and  although 
there  was  no  visible  lightening  of  the  eastern 
sky,  the  drivers  were  sensible  of  a  faintly  re- 
covering use  of  their  eyes,  could  see  the  dim 
shapes  of  the  riders  just  ahead  of  them,  the 
black  shadows  of  the  holes,  and  the  wet  shine 
of  the  mud  under  their  horses'  feet. 


BRING  UP  THE  GUNS  241 

The  hint  of  dawn  set  the  guns  on  both  sides 
to  work  with  trebled  energy.  The  new  posi- 
tion was  one  of  many  others  so  closely  set 
that  the  blazing  flames  from  the  gun  muz- 
zles seemed  to  run  out  to  right  and  left  in  a 
spouting  wall  of  fire  that  leaped  and  van- 
ished, leaped  and  vanished  without  ceasing, 
while  the  loud  ear-splitting  claps  from  the 
nearer  guns  merged  and  ran  out  to  the  flanks 
in  a  deep  drum  roll  of  echoing  thunder.  The 
noise  was  so  great  and  continuous  that  it 
drowned  even  the  roar  of  the  German  shells 
passing  overhead,  the  smash  and  crump  of 
their  fall  and  burst. 

But  the  line  of  flashes  sparkling  up  and 
down  across  the  front  beyond  the  line  of  our 
own  guns  told  a  plain  enough  tale  of  the 
German  guns'  work.  The  Sergeant-Major, 
plodding  along  beside  the  Battery  Comman- 
der, grunted  an  exclamation. 

^'Boche  is  getting  busy,'*  said  the  Battery 
Commander. 

*' Putting  a  pretty  solid  barrage  down,  isn't 
he,  sir?"  said  the  Sergeant-Major.  **Can 
we  get  the  teams  through  that?" 


242  FRONT  LINES 

''Not  mucli  hope,"  said  the  Battery  Com- 
mander, ''but,  thank  Heaven,  we  don't  have 
to  try,  if  he  keeps  barraging  there.  It  is  be- 
yond our  position.  There  are  the  gun-pits 
just  off  to  the  left." 

But,  although  the  barrage  was  out  in  front 
of  the  position,  there  were  a  good  many  long- 
ranged  shells  coming  beyond  it  to  fall  spout- 
ing fire  and  smoke  and  earth-clods  on  and 
behind  the  line  of  guns.  The  teams  were 
flogged  and  lifted  and  spurred  into  a  last 
desperate  effort,  wrenched  the  guns  forward 
the  last  hundred  yards  and  halted.  Instantly 
they  were  unhooked,  turned  round,  and 
started  stumbling  wearily  back  towards  the 
rear;  the  gunners,  reinforced  by  others 
scarcely  less  dead-beat  than  themselves  by 
their  night  of  digging  in  heavy  wet  soil,  seized 
the  guns  and  waggons,  flung  their  last  ounce 
of  strength  and  energy  into  man-handling 
them  up  and  into  the  pits.  Two  unlucky 
shells  at  that  moment  added  heavily  to  the 
night's  casualty  list,  one  falling  beside  the 
retiring  teams  and  knocking  out  half  a  dozen 
horses    and    two    men,    another    dropping 


BRING  UP  THE  GUNS  243 

within  a  score  of  yards  of  the  gun-pits,  killing 
three  and  wounding  four  gunners.  Later, 
at  intervals,  two  more  gunners  were  wounded 
by  flying  splinters  from  chance  shells  that 
continued  to  drop  near  the  pits  as  the  guns 
were  laboriously  dragged  through  the  quag- 
mire into  their  positions.  But  none  of  the 
casualties,  none  of  the  falls  and  screamings 
of  the  high-explosive  shells,  interrupted  or 
delayed  the  work,  and  without  rest  or  pause 
the  men  struggled  and  toiled  on  until  the 
last  gun  was  safely  housed  in  its  pit. 

Then  the  battery  cooks  served  out  warm 
tea,  and  the  men  drank  greedily,  and  after, 
too  worn  out  to  be  hungry  or  to  eat  the  bis- 
cuit and  cheese  ration  issued,  flung  them- 
selves down  in  the  pits  under  and  round 
their  guns  and  slept  there  in  the  trampled 
mud. 

The  Sergeant-Major  was  the  last  to  lie 
down.  Only  after  everyone  else  had  ceased 
work,  and  he  had  visited  each  gun  in  turn 
and  satisfied  himself  that  all  was  correct,  and 
made  his  report  to  the  Battery  Commander, 


244  FRONT  LINES 

did  he  seek  his  own  rest.  Then  he  crawled 
into  one  of  the  pits,  and  before  he  slept  had 
a  few  words  with  the  "Number  One"  there, 
his  old  friend  Duncan.  The  Sergeant-Major, 
feeling  in  his  pockets  for  a  match  to  light  a 
cigarette,  found  the  note  which  the  Battery 
Commander  had  sent  back  and  which  had 
been  passed  on  to  him.  He  turned  his  torch- 
light on  it  and  read  it  through  to  Duncan — 
**  Bring  up  the  guns  and  firing  battery  wag- 
gons ..."  and  then  chuckled  a  little. ' '  Bring 
up  the  guns.  .  .  .  Eemember  that  picture  we 
saw  before  we  joined,  Duncan?  And  we  fan- 
cied then  we'd  be  bringing  'em  up  same  fash- 
ion.   And,  good  Lord,  think  of  to-night." 

*'Yes,"  grunted  Duncan,  "sad  slump  from 
our  anticipations.  There  was  some  fun  in 
that  picture  style  of  doing  the  job — some  sort 
of  dash  and  honour  and  glory.  No  honour 
and  glory  about  'Bring  up  the  guns'  these 
days.    Napoo  in  it  to-night  anyway." 

The  Sergeant-Major,  sleepily  sucking  his 
damp  cigarette,  wrapped  in  his  sopping  Brit- 
ish Warm,  curling  up  in  a  corner  on  the  wet 


BRING  UP  THE  GUNS  245 

cold  earth,  utterly  spent  with  the  night's 
work,  cordially  agreed. 

Perhaps,  and  anyhow  one  hopes,  some  peo- 
ple will  think  they  were  wrong. 


XIV 

OUR  BATTERY'S  PRISONER 

It  was  in  the  very  small  hours  of  a  misty 
grey  morning  that  the  Lieutenant  was  re- 
lieved at  the  Forward  Observing  Position  in 
the  extreme  front  line  established  after  the 
advance,  and  set  out  with  his  Signaller  to  re- 
turn to  the  Battery.  His  way  took  him  over 
the  captured  ground  and  the  maze  of  cap- 
tured trenches  and  dug-outs  more  or  less  de- 
stroyed by  bombardment,  and  because  there 
were  still  a  number  of  German  shells  coming 
over  the  two  kept  as  nearly  as  possible  to  a 
route  which  led  them  along  or  close  to  the  old 
trenches,  and  so  under  or  near  some  sort  of 
cover. 

The  two  were  tired  after  a  strenuous  day, 
which  had  commenced  the  previous  dawn  in 
the  Battery  O.P.,^  and  finished  in  the  ruined 
building  in  the  new  front  line,  and  a  couple 

*  Observation  Post. 
246 


OUR  BATTERY'S  PRISONER         247 

of  hours'  sleep  in  a  very  cold  and  wet  cellar. 
The  Lieutenant,  plodding  over  the  wet 
ground,  went  out  of  his  way  to  walk  along 
a  part  of  trench  where  his  Battery  had  been 
wire-cutting,  and  noted  with  a  natural  pro- 
fessional interest  and  curiosity  the  nature 
and  extent  of  the  damage  done  to  the  old 
enemy  trenches  and  wire,  when  his  eye  sud- 
denly caught  the  quick  movement  of  a  shad- 
owy grey  figure,  which  whisked  instantly  out 
of  sight  somewhere  along  the  trench  they 
were  in. 

The  Lieutenant  halted  abruptly.  ''Did 
you  see  anyone  move?"  he  asked  the  Sig- 
naller, who,  of  course,  being  behind  the  officer 
in  the  trench,  had  seen  nothing,  and  said  so. 
They  pushed  along  the  trench,  and^  coming  to 
the  spot  where  the  figure  had  vanished, 
found  the  opening  to  a  dug-out  with  a  long 
set  of  stairs  vanishing  down  into  the  dark- 
ness. Memories  stirred  in  the  officer's  mind 
of  tales  about  Germans  who  had  ''lain 
doggo"  in  ground  occupied  by  us,  and  had, 
over  a  buried  wire,  kept  in  touch  with  their 
batteries  and  directed  their  fire  on  to  our  new 


248  FRONT  LINES 

positions,  and  this,  with  some  vague  instinct 
of  the  chase,  prompted  the  decision  he  an- 
nounced to  his  Signaller  that  he  was  ' '  going 
down  to  have  a  look/' 

''Better  be  careful,  sir,"  said  the  Signaller. 
"You  don't  know  if  the  gas  has  cleared  out  of 
a  deep  place  like  that."  This  was  true,  be- 
cause a  good  deal  of  gas  had  been  sent  over 
in  the  attack  of  the  day  before,  and  the  offi- 
cer began  to  wonder  if  he'd  be  a  fool  to  go 
down.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  a  German 
was  there  he  would  know  there  was  no  gas, 
and,  anyhow,  it  was  a  full  day  since  the  gas 
cloud  went  over.    He  decided  to  chance  it. 

**You  want  to  look  out  for  any  Boshies 
down  there,  sir,"  went  on  the  Signaller. 
*'With  all  these  yarns  they're  fed  with,  about 
us  killin'  prisoners,  you  never  know  how 
they're  goin'  to  take  it,  and  whether  they'll 
kamerad  or  make  a  fight  for  it." 

This  also  was  true,  and  since  a  man  crawl- 
ing down  a  steep  and  narrow  stair  made  a 
target  impossible  for  anyone  shooting  up 
the  tunnel  to  miss,  the  Lieutenant  began  to 
wish  himself  out  of  the  job.    But  something. 


OUR  BATTERY'S  PRISONER  249 

partly  obstinacy,  perhaps  partly  an  nnwill- 
ing-ness  to  back  down  after  saying  he  would 
go,  made  him  carry  on.  But  before  he  started 
he  took  the  precaution  to  push  a  sandbag  off 
where  it  lay  on  the  top  step,  to  roll  bumping 
and  flopping  down  the  stairs.  If  the  Boche 
had  any  mind  to  shoot,  he  argued  to  himself, 
he'd  almost  certainly  shoot  at  the  sound,  since 
it  was  too  dark  to  see.  The  sandbag  bumped 
down  into  silence,  while  the  two  stood  strain- 
ing their  ears  for  any  sound.  There  was 
none. 

'*  You  wait  here,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  and, 
with  his  cocked  pistol  in  his  hand,  began  to 
creep  cautiously  down  the  stairs.  The  pas- 
sage was  narrow,  and  so  low  that  he  almost 
filled  it,  even  although  he  was  bent  nearly 
double,  and  as  he  went  slowly  down,  the  dis- 
comforting thought  again  presented  itself 
with  renewed  clearness,  how  impossible  it 
would  be  for  a  shot  up  the  steps  to  miss  him, 
and  again  he  very  heartily  wished  himself 
well  out  of  the  job. 

It  was  a  long  stair,  fully  twenty-five  to 
thirty  feet  underground  he  reckoned  by  the 


250  FRONT  LINES 

time  lie  reached  the  foot,  but  he  found  him- 
self there  and  on  roughly  levelled  ground 
with  a  good  deal  of  relief.  Evidently  the 
Boche  did  not  mean  to  show  fight,  at  any  rate, 
until  he  knew  he  was  discovered.  The  Lieu- 
tenant knew  no  German,  but  made  a  try  with 
one  word,  putting  as  demanding  a  tone  into 
it  as  he  could — ''Kamerad!"  He  had  his 
finger  on  the  trigger  and  his  pistol  ready  for 
action  as  he  spoke,  in  case  a  pot-shot  came  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

There  was  a  dead,  a  very  dead  and  creepy 
silence  after  his  word  had  echoed  and  whis- 
pered away  to  stillness.  He  advanced  a  step 
or  two,  feeling  carefully  foot  after  foot,  with 
his  left  hand  outstretched  and  the  pistol  in  his 
right  still  ready.  The  next  thing  was  to  try 
a  light.  This  would  certainly  settle  it  one 
way  or  the  other,  because  if  anyone  was  there 
who  meant  to  shoot,  he'd  certainly  loose  off 
at  the  light. 

The  Lieutenant  took  out  his  torch  and  held 
it  out  from  his  body  at  full  arm's  length,  to 
give  an  extra  chance  of  the  bullet  missing 
him  if  it  were  shot  at  the  light.    He  took  a 


OUR  BATTERY'S  PRISONER         251 

long  breath,  flicked  the  light  on  in  one  quick 
flashing  sweep  round,  and  snapped  it  out 
again.  There  was  no  shot,  no  sound,  no 
movement,  nothing  but  that  eerie  stillness. 
The  light  had  given  him  a  glimpse  of  a  long 
chamber  vanishing  into  dimness.  He  ad- 
vanced very  cautiously  a  few  steps,  switched 
the  light  on  again,  and  threw  the  beam 
quickly  round  the  walls.  There  was  no  sign 
of  anyone,  but  he  could  see  now  that  the  long 
chamber  curved  round  and  out  of  sight. 

He  switched  the  light  off,  stepped  back  to 
the  stair  foot,  and  called  the  Signaller  down, 
hearing  the  clumping  sound  of  the  descending 
footsteps  and  the  man's  voice  with  a  child- 
ish relief  and  sense  of  companionship.  He 
explained  the  position,  threw  the  light  boldly 
on,  and  pushed  along  to  where  the  room  ran 
round  the  corner.  Here  again  he  found  no 
sign  of  life,  but  on  exploring  right  to  the  end 
of  the  room  found  the  apparent  explanation 
of  his  failure  to  discover  the  man  he  had 
been  so  sure  of  finding  down  there.  The 
chamber  was  a  long,  narrow  one,  curved  al- 
most to  an  S-shape,  and  at  the  far  end  was 


252  FRONT  LINES 

another  steep  stair  leading  up  to  the  trench. 
The  man  evidently  had  escaped  that  way. 

The  dug-out  was  a  large  one,  capable  of 
holding,  the  Lieutenant  reckoned,  quarters 
for  some  thirty  to  forty  men.  It  was  hung 
all  round  with  greatcoats  swinging  against 
the  wall,  and  piled  on  shelves  and  hanging 
from  hooks  along  wall  and  roof  were  packs, 
haversacks,  belts,  water-bottles,  bayonets,  and 
all  sorts  of  equipment.  There  were  dozens  of 
the  old  leather  ''pickelhaube"  helmets,  and  at 
sight  of  these  the  Lieutenant  remembered  an 
old  compact  made  with  the  others  in  Mess 
that  if  one  of  them  got  a  chance  to  pick  up  any 
helmets  he  should  bring  them  in  and  divide 
up. 

**I*m  going  to  take  half  a  dozen  of  those 
helmets,"  he  said,  uncocking  his  pistol  and 
pushing  it  into  the  holster. 

** Right,  sir,"  said  the  Signaller.  **I'd  like 
one,  too,  and  we  might  pick  up  some  good 
sooveneers  here." 

**Just  as  well,  now  we  are  here,  to  see 
what's  worth  having,"  said  the  Lieutenant. 


OUR  BATTERY'S  PRISONER         253 

**I'd  rather  like  to  find  a  decent  pair  of  field- 
glasses,  or  a  Mauser  pistol." 

He  held  the  light  while  the  Signaller  hauled 
down  kits,  shook  out  packs,  and  rummaged 
round.  For  some  queer  reason  they  still 
spoke  in  subdued  tones  and  made  little  noise, 
and  suddenly  the  Lieutenant's  ears  caught  a 
sound  that  made  him  snap  his  torch  off  and 
stand,  as  he  confesses,  with  his  skin  pringling 
and  his  hair  standing  on  end. 

''Did  you  hear  anything!"  he  whispered. 
The  Signaller  had  stiffened  to  stock  stillness 
at  his  first  instinctive  start  and  the  switching 
off  of  the  light,  and  after  a  long  pause  whis- 
pered back,  *'No,  sir;  but  mebbe  you  heard 
a  rat." 

''Hold  your  breath  and  listen,"  whispered 
the  Lieutenant.  ' '  I  thought  I  heard  a  sort  of 
choky  cough." 

He  heard  the  indrawn  breath  and  then  dead 
silence,  and  then  again — once  more  the  hair 
stirred  on  his  scalp — ^plain  and  unmistakable, 
a  sound  of  deep,  slow  breathing.  ' '  Hear  it  ? " 
he  said  very  softly.  "Sound  of  breathing," 
and  "Yes,  believe  I  do  now,"  answered  the 


254  FRONT  LINES 

Signaller,  after  a  pause.  They  stood  there 
in  the  darkness  for  a  long  minute,  the  Lieu- 
tenant in  his  own  heart  cursing  himself  for 
a  fool  not  to  have  thoroughly  searched  the 
place,  to  have  made  sure  they  would  not  be 
trapped. 

Especially  he  was  a  fool  not  to  have  looked 
behind  those  great  coats  which  practically 
lined  the  walls  and  hung  almost  to  the  floor. 
There  might  be  a  dozen  men  hidden  behind 
them ;  there  might  be  a  door  leading  out  into 
another  dug-out ;  there  might  be  rifles  or  pis- 
tols covering  them  both  at  that  second,  fin- 
gers pressing  on  the  triggers.  He  was,  to 
put  it  bluntly,  ** scared  stiff,"  as  he  says  him- 
self, but  the  low  voice  of  the  Signaller  brought 
him  to  the  need  of  some  action.  ''I  can't 
hear  it  now,  sir." 

''I'm  going  to  turn  the  light  on  again," 
he  said.  ''Have  a  quick  look  round,  espe- 
cially for  any  men's  feet  showing  under  the 
coats  round  the  wall. ' '  He  switched  his  torch 
on  again,  ran  it  round  the  walls,  once,  swiftly, 
and  then,  seeing  no  feet  under  the  coats, 
slowly  and  deliberately  yard  by  yard. 


OUR  BATTERY'S  PRISONER  255 

"I'll  swear  I  heard  a  man  breathe,"  he 
said  positively,  still  peering  round.  "We'll 
search  the  place  properly." 

In  one  corner  near  the  stair  foot  lay  a  heap 
of  clothing  of  some  sort,  with  a  great-coat 
spread  wide  over  it.  It  caught  the  Lieuten- 
ant's eye  and  suspicions.  Why  should  coats 
be  heaped  there — smooth — at  full  length? 

Without  moving  his  eyes  from  the  pile,  he 
slid  his  automatic  pistol  out  again,  and 
slipped  off  the  safety  catch.  "Keep  the  light 
on  those  coats,"  he  said,  softly,  and  tip-toed 
over  to  the  pile,  the  pistol  pointed,  his  finger 
close  and  tight  on  the  trigger.  His  heart  was 
thumping  uncomfortably,  and  his  nerves  tight 
as  fiddle-strings.  He  felt  sure  somehow  that 
here  was  one  man  at  least;  and  if  he  or  any 
others  in  the  dug-out  meant  fight  on  discov- 
ery, now,  at  any  second,  the  first  shot  must 
come. 

He  stooped  over  the  coats  and  thrust  the 
pistol  forward.  If  a  man  was  there,  had  a 
rifle  or  pistol  ready  pointed  even,  at  least  he, 
the  Lieutenant,  ought  to  get  off  a  shot  with 
equal,  or  a  shade  greater  quickness.    With  his 


256  FRONT  LINES 

left  hand  he  picked  up  the  coat  comer,  turned 
it  back,  and  jerked  the  pistol  forward  and 
fairly  under  the  nose  of  the  head  his  move- 
ment had  disclosed.  '*Lie  still,"  he  said,  not 
knowing  or  caring  whether  the  man  under- 
stood or  not,  and  for  long  seconds  stood  star- 
ing down  on  the  white  face  and  into  the  fright- 
ened eyes  that  looked  unblinking  up  at  him. 

^'Kamerad,"  whispered  the  man,  still  as 
death  under  the  threat  of  that  pistol  muzzle 
and  the  finger  curled  about  the  trigger. 
"Right,"  said  the  Lieutenant.  ''Kamerad. 
Now,  very  gently,  hands  up,"  and  again, 
slowly  and  clearly,  "Hands  up."  The  man 
understood,  and  the  Lieutenant,  watching  like 
a  hawk  for  a  suspicious  movement,  for  sign 
of  a  weapon  appearing,  waited  while  the 
hands  came  slowly  creeping  up  and  out  from 
under  the  coat.  His  nerves  were  still  on  a 
raw  edge — perhaps  because  long  days  of  ob- 
serving in  the  front  lines  or  with  the  battery 
while  the  guns  are  going  their  hardest  in  a 
heavy  night-and-day  bombardment  are  not 
conducive  to  steadiness  of  nerves — but,  satis- 
fied at  last  that  the  man  meant  to  play  no 


OUR  BATTERY'S  PRISONER         257 

tricks,  lie  flung  the  coat  back  off  him,  made 
him  stand  with  his  hands  up,  and  ran  his  left 
hand  over  breast  and  pockets  for  feel  of  any 
weapon.  That  done,  he  stepped  back  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  *'Phew!  I  beheve  I  was  just 
about  as  cold  scared  as  he  was,"  he  said. 
<*D'you  speak  English?  No.  Well,  I  sup- 
pose you'll  never  know  how  close  to  death 
you've  been  the  last  minute." 

'*I  was  a  bit  jumpy,  too,  sir,"  said  the  Sig- 
naller. ''You  never  know,  and  it  doesn't  do 
to  take  chances  wi'  these  chaps." 

"I  wasn't,"  said  the  Lieutenant.  "I  be- 
lieve, if  I'd  seen  a  glint  of  metal  as  his  hands 
came  up,  I'd  have  blown  the  top  of  his  blessed 
head  off.    Pity  he  can't  speak  English." 

"Mans,"  said  the  prisoner,  nodding  his 
head  towards  the  other  end  of  the  dug-out. 
"Oder  mans." 

The  Lieutenant  whipped  round  with  a 
startled  exclamation.  "What,  more  of  'em. 
G '  Lord !  I  've  had  about  enough  of  this.  But 
we  'd  better  make  all  safe.  Come  on,  Fritz ; 
lead  us  to  'em.  No  monkey  tricks,  now, ' '  and 
he  pushed  his  pistol  close  to  the  German's 


258  FRONT  LINES 

flinching  head.  ''Oder  mars,  kamerad,  ehl 
Savvy  f'» 

*'Ge-wounded,"  said  the  prisoner,  making 
signs  to  help  his  meaning.  Under  his  guid- 
ance and  with  the  pistol  close  to  his  ear  all 
the  time,  they  pulled  aside  some  of  the  coats 
and  found  a  man  lying  in  a  bunk  hidden  be- 
hind them.  His  head  was  tied  up  in  a  soak- 
ing bandage,  the  rough  pillow  was  wet  with 
blood,  and  by  all  the  signs  he  was  pretty  badly 
hit.  The  Lieutenant  needed  no  more  than  a 
glance  to  see  the  man  was  past  being  danger- 
ous, so,  after  making  the  prisoner  give  him 
a  drink  from  a  water-bottle,  they  went  round 
the  walls,  and  found  it  recessed  all  the  way 
round  with  empty  bunks. 

"What  a  blazing  ass  I  was  not  to  hunt 
round,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  puffing  another 
sigh  of  relief  as  they  finished  the  jumpy  busi- 
ness of  pulling  aside  coat  after  coat,  and 
never  knowing  whether  the  movement  of  any 
one  of  them  was  going  to  bring  a  muzzle-close 
shot  from  the  blackness  behind.  "We  must 
get  out  of  this,  though.    It's  growing  late, 


OUR  BATTERY'S  PRISONER         259 

and  the  Battery  will  be  wondering  and  think- 
ing we've  got  pipped  on  the  way  back." 

''What  about  these  things,  sir?"  said  the 
Signaller,  pointing  to  the  helmets  and  equip- 
ment they  had  hauled  down. 

''Right,"  said  the  Lieutenant;  "I'm  cer- 
tainly not  going  without  a  souvenir  of  this 
entertainment.  And  I  don't  see  why  Brother 
Fritz  oughtn't  to  make  himself  useful.  Here, 
spread  that  big  ground-sheet " 

So  it  came  about  that  an  hour  after  a  pro- 
cession tramped  back  through  the  lines  of  the 
infantry  and  on  to  the  gun  lines — one  Ger- 
man, with  a  huge  ground-sheet,  gathered  at 
the  corners  and  bulging  with  souvenirs,  slung 
over  his  shoulder,  the  Lieutenant  close  be- 
hind him  with  an  automatic  at  the  ready,  and 
the  Signaller,  wearing  a  huge  grin,  and  with 
a  few  spare  helmets  slung  to  his  haversack 
strap. 

"I  thought  I'd  fetch  him  right  along,"  the 
Lieutenant  explained  a  little  later  to  the  O.C. 
Battery.  ' '  Seeing  the  Battery 's  never  had  a 
prisoner  to  its  own  cheek,  I  thought  one  might 
please  'em.    And,  besides,  I  wanted  him  to 


260  FRONT  LINES 

lug  the  loot  along.  I've  got  full  outfits  for 
the  mess  this  time,  helmets  and  rifles  and 
bayonets  and  all  sorts." 

The  Battery  were  pleased.  The  Gunners 
don't  often  have  the  chance  to  take  prisoners, 
and  this  one  enjoyed  all  the  popularity  of  a 
complete  novelty.  He  was  taken  to  the  men's 
dug-out,  and  fed  with  a  full  assignment  of 
rations,  from  bacon  and  tea  to  jam  and  cheese, 
while  the  men  in  turn  cross-questioned  him  by 
the  aid  of  an  English-French-German  phrase- 
book  unearthed  by  some  studious  gunner. 

And  when  he  departed  under  escort  to  be 
handed  over  and  join  the  other  prisoners,  the 
Battery  watched  him  go  with  complete  regret. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  sir,"  the  Sergeant- 
Major  remarked  to  the  Lieutenant,  "the  men 
would  like  to  have  kept  him  as  a  sort  of  Bat- 
tery Souvenir — kind  of  a  cross  between  a 
mascot  and  a  maid-of-all-work.  Y'see,  it's 
not  often — in  fact,  I  don't  know  that  we're 
not  the  first  Field  Battery  in  this  war  to  bring 
in  a  prisoner  wi'  arms,  kit,  and  equipment 
complete." 

"The  first  battery,"  said  the  Lieutenant 


OUR  BATTERY'S  PRISONER  261 
fervently,  ''and  when  I  think  of  that  minute 
down  a  deep  hole  in  pitch  dark,  hearing  some- 
one breathe,  and  not  knowing— well,  we  may 
be  the  first  battery,  and,  as  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned, we'll  jolly  well  be  the  last." 


XV 

OUR  TURN 

No.  II  platoon  had  had  a  bad  mauling  in  their 
advance,  and  when  they  reached  their  ''final 
objective  line"  there  were  left  out  of  the 
ninety-odd  men  who  had  started,  one  ser- 
geant, one  corporal,  and  fourteen  men.  But, 
with  the  rest  of  the  line,  they  at  once  set  to 
work  to  consolidate,  to  dig  in,  to  fill  the  sand- 
bags each  man  carried,  and  to  line  the  lip  of 
a  shell  crater  with  them.  Every  man  there 
knew  that  a  counter-attack  on  their  position 
was  practically  a  certainty.  They  had  not  a 
great  many  bombs  or  very  much  ammunition 
left;  they  had  been  struggling  through  a 
wilderness  of  sticky  mud  and  shell-churned 
mire  all  day,  moving  for  all  the  world  like 
flies  across  a  half-dry  fly-paper;  they  had 
been  without  food  since  dawn,  when  they  had 
consumed  the  bully  and  biscuit  of  their  iron 
''ration";  they  were  plastered  with  a  casing 

262 


OUR  TURN  263 

of  chilly  mud  from  head  to  foot;  they  were 
wet  to  the  skin ;  brain,  body,  and  bone  weary. 

But  they  went  about  the  task  of  consolidat- 
ing with  the  greatest  vigour  they  could  bring 
their  tired  muscles  to  yield.  They  worried 
not  at  all  about  the  shortage  of  bombs  and 
ammunition,  or  lack  of  food,  because  they 
were  all  by  now  veterans  of  the  new 
"planned"  warfare,  knew  that  every  detail 
of  re-supplying  them  with  all  they  required 
had  been  fully  and  carefully  arranged,  that 
these  things  were  probably  even  now  on  the 
way  to  them,  that  reinforcements  and  work- 
ing parties  would  be  pushed  up  to  the  new 
line  as  soon  as  it  was  established.  So  the 
Sergeant  was  quite  willing  to  leave  all  that 
to  work  out  in  its  proper  sequence,  knew  that 
his  simple  job  was  to  hold  the  ground  they 
had  taken,  and,  therefore,  bent  all  his  mind 
to  that  work. 

But  it  suddenly  appeared  that  the  ground 
was  not  as  completely  taken  as  he  had  sup- 
posed. A  machine-gun  close  at  hand  began 
to  bang  out  a  string  of  running  reports;  a 
stream  of  bullets  hissed  and  whipped  and 


264  FRONT  LINES 

smacked  the  ground  about  him  and  his  party. 
A  spasmodic  crackle  of  rifle-fire  started  again 
farther  along  the  line  at  the  same  time.  The 
Sergeant  paid  no  heed  to  that.  He  and  his 
men  had  flung  down  into  cover,  and  dropped 
spades  and  trenching  tools  and  sandbags,  and 
whipped  up  their  rifles  to  return  the  fire,  at 
the  first  sound  of  the  machine-gun. 

The  Sergeant  peered  over  the  edge  of  the 
hole  he  was  in,  locating  a  bobbing  head  or 
two  and  the  spurting  flashes  of  the  gun,  and 
ducked  down  again.  ''They're  in  a  shell-hole 
not  more'n  twenty,  thirty  yards  away,"  he 
said  rapidly.     ''Looks  like  only  a  handful. 

We'll  rush  'em  out.    Here "  and  he  went 

on  into  quick  detailed  orders  for  the  rushing. 
Three  minutes  later  he  and  his  men  swarmed 
out  of  their  shelter  and  went  forward  at  a 
scrambling  run,  the  bombers  flinging  a  shower 
of  grenades  ahead  of  them,  the  bayonet  men 
floundering  over  the  rough  ground  with 
weapons  at  the  ready,  the  Sergeant  well  in 
the  lead. 

Their  sudden  and  purposeful  rush  must 
have  upset  the  group  of  Germans,  because  the 


OUR  TURN  265 

machine-gun  fire  for  a  moment  became  er- 
ratic, the  muzzle  jerked  this  way  and  that, 
the  bullets  whistled  wide,  and  during  that 
same  vital  moment  no  bombs  were  thrown  by 
the  Germans ;  and  when  at  last  they  did  begin 
to  come  spinning  out,  most  of  them  went  too 
far,  and  the  runners  were  well  over  them  be- 
fore they  had  time  to  explode.  In  another 
moment  the  Sergeant  leaped  down  fairly  on 
top  of  the  machine-gun,  his  bayonet  thrust- 
ing through  the  gunner  as  he  jumped.  He 
shot  a  second  and  bayoneted  a  third,  had  his 
shoulder-strap  blown  away  by  a  rifle  at  no 
more  than  muzzle  distance,  his  sleeve  and  his 
haversack  ripped  open  by  a  bayonet  thrust. 

Then  his  men  swarmed  down  into  the  wide 
crater,  and  in  two  minutes  the  fight  was  over. 
There  were  another  few  seconds  of  rapid  fire 
at  two  or  three  of  the  Germans  who  had 
jumped  out  and  run  for  their  lives,  and  that 
finished  the  immediate  performance.  The 
Sergeant  looked  round,  climbed  from  the  hole, 
and  made  a  hasty  examination  of  the  ground 
about  them. 

**  'Tisn't  as  good  a  crater  as  we  left,"  he 


266  FRONT  LINES 

said,  ''an'  it's  'way  out  front  o'  the  line  the 
others  is  digging,  so  we'd  best  get  back.  Get 
a  hold  o'  that  machine-gun  an'  all  the  spare 
ammunition  you  can  lay  hands  on.  We  might 
find  it  come  in  useful.  Good  job  we  had  the 
way  a  Fritz  gun  works  shown  us  once.  Come 
on." 

The  men  hastily  collected  all  the  ammuni- 
tion they  could  find  and  were  moving  back, 
when  one  of  them,  standing  on  the  edge  of  the 
hole,  remarked:  ''We  got  the  top  o'  the 
ridge  all  right  this  time.  Look  at  the  open 
flat  down  there." 

The  Sergeant  turned  and  looked,  and  an  ex- 
clamation broke  from  him  at  sight  of  the  view 
over  the  ground  beyond  the  ridge.  Up  to  now 
that  ground  had  been  hidden  by  a  haze  of 
smoke  from  the  bursting  shells  where  our 
barrage  was  pounding  steadily  down.  But 
for  a  minute  the  smoke  had  lifted  or  blown 
aside,  and  the  Sergeant  found  himself  look- 
ing down  the  long  slope  of  a  valley  with  gently 
swelling  sides,  looking  right  down  on  to  the 
plain  below  the  ridge.  He  scanned  the  lie  of 
the  ground  rapidly,  and  in  an  instant  had 


OUR  TURN  267 

made  up  his  mind.  ''Hold  on  there,'*  he  or- 
dered abruptly;  ''we'll  dig  in  here  instead. 
Sling  that  machine-gun  back  in  here  and 
point  her  out  that  way.  You,  Lees,  get  'er 
into  action,  and  rip  out  a  few  rounds  just  to 
see  you  got  the  hang  o'  it.  Heave  those  dead 
Boches  out;  an',  Corporal,  you  nip  back  with 
half  a  dozen  men  and  fetch  along  the  tools  and 
sandbags  we  left  there.     Slippy  now." 

The  Corporal  picked  his  half-dozen  men 
and  vanished,  and  the  Sergeant  whipped  out 
a  message-book  and  began  to  scribble  a  note. 
Before  he  had  finished  the  rifle-fire  began  to 
rattle  down  along  the  line  again,  and  he  thrust 
the  book  in  his  pocket,  picked  up  his  rifle,  and 
peered  out  over  the  edge  of  the  hole.  "There 
they  go.  Lees,"  he  said  suddenly.  "Way 
along  there  on  the  left  front.  Pump  it  into 
'em.  Don't  waste  rounds,  though;  we  may 
need  'em  for  our  own  front  in  a  minute. 
Come  on.  Corporal,  get  down  in  here.  Looks 
like  the  start  o'  a  counter-attack,  though  I 
don't  see  any  of  the  blighters  on  our  own 
front.  Here,  you  two,  spade  out  a  cut  into 
the  next  shell-hole  there,  so's  to  link  'em  up. 


268  FRONT  LINES 

Steady  that  gun,  Lees ;  don't  waste  'em.  Get 
on  to  your  sandbag-fillin',  the  others,  an* 
make  a  bit  o '  a  parapet  this  side. ' ' 

''We're  a  long  ways  out  in  front  of  the  rest 
o'  the  line,  ain't  we?"  said  the  Corporal. 

''Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  Sergeant.  "I 
want  to  send  a  message  back  presently.  This 
is  the  spot  to  hold,  an'  don't  you  forget  it. 
Just  look  down — hullo,  here's  our  barrage 
droppin'  again.  Well,  it  blots  out  the  view, 
but  it'll  be  blottin'  out  any  Germs  that  try  to 

push  us ;  so  hit  'er  up,  the  Gunners.  But '* 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  and  stared  out  into 
the  writhing  haze  of  smoke  in  front  of  them. 
"Here  they  come,"  he  said  sharply.  "Now, 
Lees,  get  to  it.  Stand  by,  you  bombers. 
Range  three  hundred  the  rest  o'  you,  an'  fire 
steady.  Pick  your  marks.  We  got  no  rounds 
to  waste.    Now,  then " 

The  rifles  began  to  bang  steadily,  then  at 
a  rapidly  increasing  rate  as  the  fire  failed  to 
stop  the  advance,  and  more  dim  figures  after 
figures  came  looming  up  hazily  and  emerging 
from  the  smoke.  The  machine-gunner  held 
his  fire  until  he  could  bring  his  sights  on  a 


OUR  TURN  269 

little  group,  fired  in  short  bursts  witli  a  side- 
ways twitch  that  sprayed  the  bullets  out  fan- 
wise  as  they  went.  The  rifle-fire  out  to  right 
and  left  of  them,  and  almost  behind  them, 
swelled  to  a  long,  rolling  beat  with  the  tattoo 
of  machine-guns  rapping  through  it  in  gusts, 
the  explosions  of  grenades  rising  and  falling 
in  erratic  bursts. 

Farther  back,  the  guns  were  hard  at  it 
again,  and  the  shells  were  screaming  and 
rushing  overhead  in  a  ceaseless  torrent,  the 
shrapnel  to  blink  a  star  of  flame  from  the 
heart  of  a  smoke-cloud  springing  out  in  mid- 
air, the  high  explosive  crashing  down  in  pon- 
derous bellowings,  up-flung  vivid  splashes  of 
fire  and  spouting  torrents  of  smoke,  flying 
mud  and  earth  clods.  There  were  German 
shells,  too,  shrieking  over,  and  adding  their 
share  to  the  indescribable  uproar,  crashing 
down  along  the  line,  and  spraying  out  in  cir- 
cles of  fragments,  the  smaller  bits  whistling 
and  whizzing  viciously,  the  larger  hurtling 
and  humming  like  monster  bees. 

''Them  shells  of  ours  is  comin'  down  a 
sight  too  close  to  us,  Sergeant,"  yelled  the 


270  FRONT  LINES 

Corporal,  glancing  up  as  a  shrapnel  shell 
cracked  sharply  almost  overhead  and  sprayed 
its  bullets,  scattering  and  splashing  along  the 
wet  ground  out  in  front  of  them. 

''All  right — it's  shrap,"  the  Sergeant 
yelled  back.  ''Bullets  is  pitchin'  well  for- 
rad.'» 

The  Corporal  swore  and  ducked  hastily 
from  the  whitt-whitt  of  a  couple  of  bullets 
past  their  ears.  ' '  Them  was  from  behind  us, '  * 
he  shouted.  "We're  too  blazin'  far  out  in 
front  o'  the  line  here.    Wot's  the  good '* 

"Here,"  said  the  Sergeant  to  a  man  who 
staggered  back  from  the  rough  parapet,  right 
hand  clutched  on  a  blood-streaming  left  shoul- 
der, "whip  a  field  dressin'  round  that,  an'  try 
an'  crawl  back  to  them  behind  us.  Find  an 
officer,  if  you  can,  an'  tell  him  we're  out  in 
front  of  'im.  An'  tell  'im  I'm  going  to  hang 
on  to  the  position  we  have  here  till  my  blanky 
teeth  pull  out." 

"Wot's  the  good "  began  the  Corporal 

again,  ceasing  fire  to  look  round  at  the  Ser- 
geant. 

"Never  mind  the  good  now,"  said  the  Ser- 


OUR  TURN  271 

geant  shortly,  as  he  recharged  his  magazine. 
''You'll  see  after — if  we  live  long  enough." 
He  levelled  and  aimed  his  rifle.  ''An'  we 
won't  do  that  if  you  stand  there" — (he  fired 
a  shot  and  jerked  the  breech  open) — "jawin' 
instead" — (he  slammed  the  breech-bolt  home 
and  laid  cheek  to  stock  again) — "o'  shoot- 
in'  " ;  and  he  snapped  another  shot. 

On  their  own  immediate  front  the  attack 
slackened,  and  died  away,  but  along  the  line 
a  little  the  Sergeant's  group  could  see  a 
swarm  of  men  charging  in.  The  Sergeant  im- 
mediately ordered  the  machine-gun  and  every 
rifle  to  take  the  attackers  in  enfilade.  For  the 
next  few  minutes  every  man  shot  as  fast  as 
he  could  load  and  pull  trigger,  and  the  cap- 
tured machine-gun  banged  and  spat  a  steady 
stream  of  fire.  The  Sergeant  helped  until  he 
saw  tlie  attack  dying  out  again,  its  remnants 
fading  into  the  smoke  haze.  Then  he  pulled 
his  book  out,  and  wrote  his  message:  "Am 
holding  crater  position  with  captured  ma- 
chine-gun and  eight  men  of  No.  2  Platoon. 
Good  position,  allowing  enfilade  fire  on  at- 
tack, and  with  command  of  farther  slopes. 


272  FRONT  LINES 

Urgently    require    men,    ammunition,    and 
bombs,  but  will  hold  out  to  the  finish." 

He  sent  the  note  back  by  a  couple  of 
wounded  men,  and  set  his  party  about 
strengthening  their  position  as  far  as  pos- 
sible. In  ten  minutes  another  attack  com- 
menced, and  the  men  took  up  their  rifles  and 
resumed  their  steady  fire.  But  this  time  the 
field-grey  figures  pressed  in,  despite  the  pour- 
ing fire  and  the  pounding  shells,  and,  although 
they  were  held  and  checked  and  driven  to  tak- 
ing cover  in  shell-holes  on  the  Sergeant's  im- 
mediate front,  they  were  within  grenade- 
throwing  distance  there,  and  the  German ' '  po- 
tato-masher" bombs  and  the  British  Mills' 
began  to  twirl  and  curve  over  to  and  frOj  and 
burst  in  shattering  detonations.  Three  more 
of  the  Sergeant's  party  were  wounded  inside 
as  many  minutes,  but  every  man  who  could 
stand  on  his  feet,  well  or  wounded,  rose  at 
the  Sergeant's  warning  yell  to  meet  the  rush 
of  about  a  dozen  men  who  swung  aside  from 
a  large  group  that  had  pressed  in  past  their 
flank.  The  rush  was  met  by  a  few  quick  shots, 
but  the  ammunition  for  the  machine-gun  had 


OUR  TURN  273 

run  out,  and  of  bombs  even  there  were  only  a 
few  left.  So,  in  the  main,  the  rush  was  met 
with  the  bayonet — and  killed  with  it.  The 
Sergeant  still  held  his  crater,  but  now  he  had 
only  two  unwounded  men  left  to  help  him. 

The  Corporal,  nursing  a  gashed  cheek  and 
spitting  mouthfuls  of  blood,  shouted  at  him 
again,  '*  Y'  ain't  goin'  to  try  'n  hold  on  longer, 
surely.  We've  near  shot  the  last  round 
away. ' ' 

"I'll  hold  it,"  said  the  Sergeant  grimly, 
*'if  I  have  to  do  it  myself  wi'  my  bare  fists." 

But  he  cast  anxious  looks  behind,  in  hope  of 
a  sight  of  reinforcements,  and  knew  that  if 
they  did  not  come  before  another  rush  he  and 
his  party  were  done.  His  tenacity  had  its  due 
reward.  Help  did  come — men  and  ammuni- 
tion and  bombs  and  a  couple  of  machine-guns 
— and  not  three  minutes  before  the  launching 
of  another  attack.  An  officer  was  with  the 
party,  and  took  command,  but  he  was  killed 
inside  the  first  minute,  and  the  Sergeant  again 
took  hold. 

Again  the  attack  was  made  all  along  the 
line,  and  again,  under  the  ferocious  fire  of  the 


274  FRONT  LINES 

reinforced  line,  it  was  beaten  back.  The  line 
had  at  the  last  minute  been  hinged  outward 
behind  the  Sergeant,  and  so  joined  up  with 
him  that  it  formed  a  sharpish  angle,  with  the 
Sergeant's  crater  at  its  point.  The  enfilade 
fire  of  this  forward-swung  portion  and  the 
two  machine-guns  in  the  crater  did  a  good 
deal  to  help  cut  down  the  main  attack. 

When  it  was  well  over,  and  the  attack  had 
melted  away,  the  Captain  of  the  Sergeant's 
Company  pushed  up  into  the  crater. 

*  *  Who 's  in  charge  here  ?  "  he  asked.  '  *■  You, 
Sergeant!  Your  note  came  back,  and  we  sent 
you  help ;  but  you  were  taking  a  long  risk  out 
here.  Didn't  you  know  you  had  pushed  out 
beyond  your  proper  point?  And  why  didn't 
you  retire  when  you  found  yourself  in  the 
air?" 

The  Sergeant  turned  and  pointed  out  where 
the  thinning  smoke  gave  a  view  of  the  wide 
open  flats  of  the  plain  beyond  the  ridge. 

"I  got  a  look  o'  that,  sir,"  he  said,  ^'and  I 
just  thought  a  commanding  position  like  this 
was  worth  sticking  a  lot  to  hang  to." 

**  Jove!  and  you  were  right,"  said  the  Cap- 


OUR  TURN  275 

tain,  looking  gloatingly  on  the  flats,  and  went 
on  to  add  other  and  warmer  words  of  praise. 

But  it  was  to  his  corporal,  a  little  later, 
that  the  Sergeant  really  explained  his  hang- 
ing on  to  the  point. 

"Look  at  it!"  he  said  enthusiastically; 
"look  at  the  view  you  get!" 

The  Corporal  viewed  dispassionately  for  a 
moment  the  dreary  expanse  below,  the  shell- 
churned  morass  and  mud,  wandering  rivulets 
and  ditches,  shell-wrecked  fragments  of  farms 
and  buildings,  the  broken,  bare-stripped  poles 
of  trees. 

"Bloomin'  great,  ain't  itT'  he  mumbled 
disgustedly,  through  his  bandaged  jaws. 
"Fair  beautiful.  Makes  you  think  you'd  like 
to  come  'ere  after  the  war  an'  build  a  'ouse, 
an'  sit  lookin'  out  on  it  always — I  don't 
think." 

"Exactly  what  I  said  the  second  I  saw  it," 
said  the  Sergeant,  and  chuckled  happily. 
"Only  my  house  'd  be  a  nice  little  trench  an' 
a  neat  little  dug-out,  an'  be  for  duration  o' 
war.  Think  o'  it,  man — just  think  o'  this 
winter,  with  us  up  here  along  the  ridge,  an' 


276  FRONT  LINES 

Fritz  down  in  his  trenches  below  there,  up  to 
the  middle  in  mud.  Him  cursin'  Creation, 
and  strugglin'  to  pmnp  his  trenches  out;  and 
us  sitting  nicely  up  here  in  the  dry,  snipin' 
down  in  enfilade  along  his  trench,  and  pump- 
in'  the  water  out  of  our  trenches  down  on  to 
the  flat  to  drown  him  out. ' ' 

The  Sergeant  chuckled  again,  slapped  his 
hands  together.  ''I've  been  havin'  that  side 
of  it  back  in  the  salient  there  for  best  part  o' 
two  years,  off  and  on.  Fritz  has  been  up  top, 
keepin'  his  feet  dry  and  watchin'  us  gettin' 
shelled  an'  shot  up  an'  minnie-werfered  to 
glory — squattin'  up  here,  smokin'  his  pipe 
an'  takin'  a  pot-shot  at  us,  and  watchin'  us 
through  his  field-glasses,  just  as  he  felt  like. 
And  now  it's  our  turn.  Don't  let  me  hear 
anybody  talk  about  drivin'  the  Hun  back  for 
miles  from  here.  I  don't  want  him  to  go 
back ;  I  want  him  to  sit  down  there  the  whole 
dam  winter,  freezin'  an'  drownin'  to  death 
ten  times  a  day.  Fritz  isn't  go  in'  to  like  that 
— ^not  any.  I  am,  an'  that's  why  I  hung  like 
grim  death  to  this  look-out  point.  This  is 
where  we  come  in;  this  is  our  turn!" 


XVI 

ACCORDING  TO  PLAN 

''Ratty"  Travers  dropped  his  load  with  a 
grunt  of  satisfaction,  squatted  down  on  the 
ground,  and  tilting  his  shrapnel  helmet  back, 
mopped  a  streaming  brow.  As  the  line  in 
which  he  had  moved  dropped  to  cover,  an- 
other line  rose  out  of  the  ground  ahead  of 
them  and  commenced  to  push  forward.  Some 
distance  beyond,  a  wave  of  kilted  Highlanders 
pressed  on  at  a  steady  walk  up  to  within  about 
fifty  paces  of  the  string  of  flickering,  jump- 
ing white  patches  that  marked  the  edge  of  the 
"artillery  barrage." 

Ratty  Travers  and  the  others  of  the  ma- 
chine-gun company  being  in  support  had  a 
good  view  of  the  lines  attacking  ahead  of 
them. 

''Them  Jocks  is  goin'  along  nicely,"  said 

the  man  who   had   dropped   beside   Ratty. 

Ratty  grunted  scornfully.    "Beautiful,"  he 
277 


278  FRONT  LINES 

said.  *'An'  we're  doin'  wonderful  well  our- 
selves. I  never  remember  gettin'  over  the  No 
Man's  Land  so  easy,  or  seein'  a  trench  took 
so  quick  an'  simple  in  my  life  as  this  one 
we're  in;  or  seein'  a  'tillery  barrage  move  so 
nice  an'  even  and  steady  to  time." 

''You've  seed  a  lot,  Ratty,"  said  his  com- 
panion.    *'But  you  ain't  seed  everything." 

"That's  true,"  said  Ratty.  ''I've  never 
seen  a  lot  o'  grown  men  playin'  let's-pretend 
like  a  lot  of  school  kids.  Just  look  at  that 
fool  wi'  the  big  drum,  Johnny." 

Johnny  looked  and  had  to  laugh.  The  man 
with  the  big  drum  was  lugging  it  off  at  the 
double  away  from  the  kilted  line,  and  strung 
out  to  either  side  of  him  there  raced  a  scat- 
tered line  of  men  armed  with  sticks  and 
biscuit-tins  and  empty  cans.  Ratty  and  his 
companions  were  clothed  in  full  fighting  kit 
and  equipment,  and  bore  boxes  of  very  real 
ammunition.  In  the  "trenches"  ahead  of 
them,  or  moving  over  the  open,  were  other 
men  similarly  equipped ;  rolling  back  to  them 
came  a  clash  and  clatter,  a  dull  prolonged 
hoom-boom-hoom.    In  every  detail,  so  far  as 


:according  to  plan  279 

the  men  were  concerned,  an  attack  was  in  full 
swing;  but  there  was  no  yell  and  crash  of 
falling  shells,  no  piping  whistle  and  sharp 
crack  of  bullets,  no  deafening,  shaking  thun- 
der of  artillery  (except  that  steady  boom- 
hoom),  no  shell-scorched  strip  of  battered 
ground.  The  warm  sun  shone  on  trim  green 
fields,  on  long  twisting  lines  of  flags  and  tapes 
strung  on  sticks,  on  ranks  of  perspiring  men 
in  khaki  with  rifles  and  bombs  and  machine- 
guns  and  ammunition  and  stretchers  and  all 
the  other  accoutrements  of  battle.  There 
were  no  signs  of  death  or  wounds,  none  of  the 
horror  of  war,  because  this  was  merely  a 
'^practice  attack,"  a  full-dress  rehearsal  of 
the  real  thing,  full  ten  miles  behind  the  front. 
The  trenches  were  marked  out  by  flags  and 
tapes,  the  artillery  barrage  was  a  line  of  men 
hammering  biscuit-tins  and  a  big  drum,  and 
waving  fluttering  white  flags.  The  kilts  came 
to  a  halt  fifty  paces  short  of  them,  and  a  mo- 
ment later,  the  '* barrage"  sprinted  off  ahead 
one  or  two  score  yards,  halted,  and  fell  to 
banging  and  battering  tins  and  drum  and 
waving  flags,  while  the  kilts  solemnly  moved 


280  FRONT  LINES 

on  after  them,  to  halt  again  at  their  measured 
distance  until  the  next  ''lift"  of  the  ''bar- 
rage." It  looked  sheer  child's  play,  a  silly- 
elaborate  game;  and  yet  there  was  no  sign 
of  laughter  or  play  about  the  men  taking  part 
in  it — except  on  the  part  of  Ratty  Travers. 
Ratty  was  openly  scornful.  "Ready  there," 
said  a  sergeant  rising  and  pocketing  the  note- 
book he  had  been  studying.  ' '  We  Ve  only  five 
minutes  in  this  trench.  And  remember  you 
move  half- right  when  you  leave  here,  an'  the 
next  line  o'  flags  is  the  sunk  road  wi'  six 
machine-gun  emplacements  along  the  edge." 

Ratty  chuckled  sardonically.  "I  'ope  that 
in  the  real  thing  them  machine-guns  won't 
'ave  nothing  to  say  to  us  movin'  half -right 
across  their  front, ' '  he  said. 

"They've  been  strafed  out  wi'  the  guns," 
said  Johnny  simply,  "an'  the  Jocks  'as 
mopped  up  any  that's  left.  We  was  told  that 
yesterday. ' ' 

"I  dare  say,"  retorted  Ratty.  "An'  I 
hopes  the  Huns  'ave  been  careful  instructed 
in  the  same.  It  'ud  be  a  pity  if  they  went  an' 
did  anything  to  spoil  all  the  plans.    But  they 


ACCORDING  TO  PLAN  281 

wouldn't  do  that.  Oh,  no,  of  course  not — I 
don't  think!" 

He  had  a  good  deal  more  to  say  in  the  same 
strain — ^with  especially  biting  criticism  on  the 
"artillery  barrage"  and  the  red-faced  big 
drummer  who  played  lead  in  it^ — during  the 
rest  of  the  practice  and  at  the  end  of  it  when 
they  lay  in  their  "final  objective"  and  rested, 
smoking  and  cooling  off  with  the  top  buttons 
of  tunics  undone,  while  the  officers  gathered 
round  the  CO.  and  listened  to  criticism  and 
made  notes  in  their  books. 

"I'll  admit,"  he  said,  "they  might  plan  out 
the  trenches  here  the  same  as  the  ones  we're 
to  attack  from.  It's  this  rot  o'  layin'  out  the 
Fritz  trenches  gets  me.  An'  this  attack — it's 
about  as  like  a  real  attack  as  my  gasper's  like 
a  machine-gun.  Huh !  Wi'  one  bloke  clockin' 
you  on  a  stop-watch,  an'  another  countin'  the 
paces  between  the  trenches — Boche  trenches  a 
mile  behind  their  front  line,  mind  you — an' 
another  whackin'  a  big  drum  like  a  kid  in  a 
nursery.  An'  all  this  'Go  steady  here,  this  is 
a  sharp  rise,'  or  'hurry  this  bit,  'cos  most 
likely  it'll  be  open  to  enfiladin'  machine-gun 


282  FRONT  LINES 

fire,'  or  'this  here's  the  sunk  road  wi'  six 
machine-gun  emplacements.'  Huh!  Plunky 
rot  I  calls  it. ' ' 

The  others  heard  him  in  silence  or  with 
mild  chafiSng  replies.  Ratty  was  new  to  this 
planned-attack  game,  of  course,  but  since  he 
had  been  out  and  taken  his  whack  of  the  early 
days,  had  been  wounded,  and  home,  and  only 
lately  had  come  out  again,  he  was  entitled  to 
a  certain  amount  of  excusing. 

Johnny  summed  it  up  for  them.  ''We've 
moved  a  bit  since  the  Noove  Chapelle  days, 
you  know,"  he  said.  "You  didn't  have  no 
little  lot  like  this  then,  did  you  I"  jerking  his 
head  at  the  bristling  line  of  their  machine- 
guns.  "An'  you  didn't  have  creepin'  bar- 
rages, an'  more  shells  than  you  could  fire,  eh? 
Used  to  lose  seventy  an'  eighty  per  cent,  o' 
the  battalion's  strength  goin'  over  the  bags 
them  days,  didn't  you?  Well,  we've  changed 
that  a  bit,  thank  Gawd.  You'll  see  the  differ 
presently." 

Later  on  Ratty  had  to  admit  a  considerable 
"differ"  and  a  great  improvement  on  old 
ways.  He  and  his  company  moved  up  towards 


ACCORDING  TO  PLAN  283 

the  front  leisurely  and  certainly,  without 
haste  and  without  confusion,  having  the  or- 
ders detailed  overnight  for  the  next  day's 
march,  finding  meals  cooked  and  served  reg- 
ularly, travelling  by  roads  obviously  known 
and  "detailed"  for  them,  coming  at  night  to 
camp  or  billet  places  left  vacant  for  them 
immediately  before,  finding  everything 
planned  and  prepared,  foreseen  and  provided 
for.  But,  although  he  admitted  all  this,  he 
stuck  to  his  belief  that  beyond  the  front  line 
this  carefully-planned  moving  must  cease 
abruptly.  ''It'll  be  the  same  plunky  old 
scramble  an '  scrap,  I  '11  bet, ' '  he  said.  ' '  We  '11 
see  then  if  all  the  Fritz  trenches  is  just  where 
weVe  fixed  'em,  an'  if  we  runs  to  a  regular 
time-table  and  follows  the  laid-down  route 
an '  first-turn-to  -the-right-an  '-mind-the-step- 
performance  we've  been  practisin'." 

But  it  was  as  they  approached  the  fighting 
zone,  and  finally  when  they  found  themselves 
installed  in  a  support  trench  on  the  morning 
of  the  Push  that  Ratty  came  to  understand 
the  full  difference  between  old  battles  and 
this  new  style.    For  days  on  end  he  heard 


284  FRONT  LINES 

sucli  gnn-fire  as  he  had  never  dreamed  of, 
heard  it  continue  without  ceasing  or  slacken- 
ing day  and  night.  By  day  he  saw  the  distant 
German  ground  veiled  in  a  drifting  fog-bank 
of  smoke,  saw  it  by  night  starred  with  wink- 
ing and  spurting  gusts  of  flame  from  our 
high-explosives.  He  walked  or  lay  on  a 
ground  that  quivered  and  trembled  under  the 
unceasing  shock  of  our  guns'  discharges, 
covered  his  eyes  at  night  to  shut  out  the  flash- 
ing lights  that  pulsed  and  throbbed  constantly 
across  the  sky.  On  the  last  march  that  had 
brought  them  into  the  trenches  they  had 
passed  through  guns  and  guns  and  yet  again 
guns,  first  the  huge  monsters  lurking  hidden 
well  back  and  only  a  little  in  advance  of  the 
great  piles  of  shells  and  long  roofed  sidings 
crammed  with  more  shells,  then  farther  on 
past  other  monsters  only  less  in  comparison 
with  those  they  had  seen  before,  on  again 
past  whole  batteries  of  60-pounders  and  * '  six- 
inch"  tucked  away  in  corners  of  woods  or 
amongst  broken  houses,  and  finally  up 
through  the  field  guns  packed  close  in  every 
comer  that  would  more  or  less  hide  a  battery, 


ACCORDING  TO  PLAN  285 

or  brazenly  lined  up  in  the  open.  They 
tramped  down  the  long  street  of  a  ruined  vil- 
lage— a  street  that  was  no  more  than  a 
cleared  strip  of  cobble-stones  bordered  down 
its  length  on  both  sides  by  the  piled  or  scat- 
tered heaps  of  rubble  and  brick  that  had  once 
been  rows  of  houses — with  a  mad  chorus  of 
guns  roaring  and  cracking  and  banging  in 
numberless  scores  about  them,  passed  over 
the  open  behind  the  trenches  to  find  more 
guns  ranged  battery  after  battery,  and  all 
with  sheeting  walls  of  flame  jumping  and 
flashing  along  their  fronts.  They  found  and 
settled  into  their  trench  with  this  unbroken 
roar  of  fire  bellowing  in  their  ears,  a  roar  so 
loud  and  long  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  in- 
crease it.  When  their  watches  told  them  it 
was  an  hour  to  the  moment  they  had  been 
warned  was  the  "zero  hour,"  the  fixed  mo- 
ment of  the  attack,  the  sound  of  the  gun-fire 
swelled  suddenly  and  rose  to  a  pitch  of  fury 
that  eclipsed  all  that  had  gone  before.  The 
men  crouched  in  their  trench  listening  in 
awed  silence,  and  as  the  zero  hour  approached 
Ratty  clambered  and  stood  where  he  could 


286  FRONT  LINES 

look  over  the  edge  towards  the  German  lines. 
A  sergeant  shouted  at  him  angrily  to  get 
down,  and  hadn  't  he  heard  the  order  to  keep 
under  cover  f  Ratty  dropped  back  beside  the 
others.  "Lumme,"  he  said  disgustedly,  ''I 
dunno  wot  this  bloomin'  war's  comin'  to.  Or- 
ders, orders,  orders !  You  mustn't  get  plunky 
well  killed  nowadays,  unless  you  'as  orders 
to." 

"There  they  go,"  said  Johnny  suddenly, 
and  all  strained  their  ears  for  the  sound  of 
rattling  rifle-fire  that  came  faintly  through 
the  roll  of  the  guns.  ''An'  here  they  come," 
said  Ratty  quickly,  and  all  crouched  low  and 
listened  to  the  rising  roar  of  a  heavy  shell 
approaching,  the  heavy  cr-r-rump  of  its  fall. 
A  message  passed  along,  ''Ready  there. 
Move  in  five  minutes."  And  at  five  minutes 
to  the  tick,  they  rose  and  began  to  pass  along 
the  trench. 

"Know  where  we  are.  Ratty?"  asked 
Johnny.  Ratty  looked  about  him.  "How 
should  I  know?"  he  shouted  back,  "I  was 
never  'ere  before." 

"You  oughter,"  returned  Johnny.    "This 


ACCORDING  TO  PLAN  287 

is  the  line  we  started  from  back  in  practice 
attack — the  one  that  was  taped  out  along  by 
the  stream." 

*'I'm  a  fat  lot  better  for  knowin'  it  too/' 
said  Ratty  sarcastically,  and  trudged  on. 
They  passed  slowly  forward  and  along 
branching  trenches  until  they  came  at  last  to 
the  front  line,  from  which^  after  a  short  rest, 
they  climbed  and  hoisted  their  machine-guns 
out  into  the  open.  From  here  for  the  first 
time  they  could  see  something  of  the  battle- 
ground; but  could  see  nothing  of  the  battle 
except  a  drifting  haze  of  smoke,  and,  just 
disappearing  into  it,  a  shadowy  line  of  fig- 
ures. The  thunder  of  the  guns  continued,  and 
out  in  front  they  could  hear  now  the  crackle 
of  rifle  fire,  the  sharp  detonations  of  gren- 
ades. There  were  far  fewer  shells  falling 
about  the  old  ''neutral  ground"  than  Ratty 
had  expected,  and  even  comparatively  few 
bullets  piping  over  and  past  them.  They 
reached  the  tumbled  wreckage  of  shell-holes 
and  splintered  planks  that  marked  what  had 
been  the  front  German  line,  clambered 
through  this,  and  pushed  on  stumbling  and 


288  FRONT  LINES 

climbing  in  and  out  the  shell-holes  that  rid- 
dled the  ground.  *' Where's  the  Buffs  that's 
supposed  to  be  in  front  o'  us,"  shouted 
Eatty,  and  ducked  hastily  into  a  deep  shell- 
hole  at  the  warning  screech  of  an  approach- 
ing shell.  It  crashed  down  somewhere  near 
and  a  shower  of  dirt  and  earth  rained  down 
on  him.  He  climbed  out.  * '  Should  be  ahead 
about  a here's  some  o'  them  now  wi'  pris- 
oners," said  Johnny.  They  had  a  hurried 
glimpse  of  a  huddled  group  of  men  in  grey 
with  their  hands  well  up  over  their  heads, 
running,  stumbling,  half  falling  and  recover- 
ing, but  always  keeping  their  hands  hoisted 
well  up.  There  may  have  been  a  full  thirty 
of  them,  and  they  were  being  shepherded  back 
by  no  more  than  three  or  four  men  with  bay- 
onets gleaming  on  their  rifles.  They  dis- 
appeared into  the  haze,  and  the  machine- 
gunners  dropped  down  into  a  shallow  test- 
ing depression  and  pressed  on  along  it. 
*'This  is  the  communication  trench  that  used 
to  be  taped  out  along  the  edge  o'  that  corn- 
field in  practice  attack,"  said  Johnny,  when 
they    halted    a    moment.     ** Trench?"    said 


ACCORDING  TO  PLAN  289 

Eatty,  glancing  along  it,  "Strewth!"  The 
trench  was  gone,  was  no  more  than  a  wide 
shallow  depression,  a  tumbled  gutter  a  foot 
or  two  below  the  level  of  the  ground;  and 
even  the  gutter  in  places  was  lost  in  a  patch 
of  broken  earth-heaps  and  craters.  It  was 
best  traced  by  the  dead  that  lay  in  it,  by  the 
litter  of  steel  helmets,  rifles,  bombs,  gas- 
masks, bayonets,  water-bottles,  arms  and 
equipment  of  every  kind  strewed  along  it. 

By  now  Ratty  had  lost  all  sense  of  direc- 
tion or  location,  but  Johnny  at  his  elbow  was 
always  able  to  keep  him  informed.  Ratty  at 
first  refused  to  accept  his  statements,  but  was 
convinced  against  all  argument,  and  it  was 
always  clear  from  the  direct  and  unhesitating 
fashion  in  which  they  were  led  that  those  in 
command  knew  where  they  were  and  where  to 
go.  *'We  should  pass  three  trees  along  this 
trench  somewhere  soon, ' '  Johnny  would  say, 
and  presently,  sure  enough,  they  came  to  one 
stump  six  foot  high  and  two  splintered  butts 
just  showing  above  the  earth.  They  reached 
a  wide  depression,  and  Johnny  pointed  and 
shouted,  "The  sunk  road,"  and  looking  round, 


290  FRONT  LINES 

pointed  again  to  some  whitish-grey  masses 
broken,  overturned,  almost  buried  in  the  tum- 
bled earth,  the  remains  of  concrete  machine- 
gun  emplacements  which  Ratty  remembered 
had  been  marked  somewhere  back  there  on 
the  practice  ground  by  six  marked  boards. 
*  *  Six, ' '  shouted  Johnny,  and  grinned  triumph- 
antly at  the  doubter. 

The  last  of  Ratty 's  doubts  as  to  the  cor- 
rectness of  battle  plans,  even  of  the  German 
lines,  vanished  when  they  came  to  a  bare 
stretch  of  ground  which  Johnny  reminded  him 
was  where  they  had  been  warned  they  would 
most  likely  come  under  enfilading  machine- 
gun  fire.  They  halted  on  the  edge  of  this 
patch  to  get  their  wind,  and  watched  some 
stretcher-bearers  struggling  to  cross  and  a 
party  of  men  digging  furiously  to  make  a  line 
of  linked-up  shell-holes,  while  the  ground 
about  them  jumped  and  splashed  under  the 
hailing  of  bullets. 

'^Enfiladin'  fire,"  said  Ratty.  "Should 
think  it  was  too.  Why  the  'ell  don't  they 
silence  the  guns  doin'  it?" 

''Supposed  to  be  in  a  clump  o'  wood  over 


ACCORDING  TO  PLAN  291 

there, '*  said  Johnny.    **And  it  ain't  due  to 
be  took  for  an  hour  yet." 

The  word  passed  along,  and  they  rose  and 
began  to  cross  the  open  ground  amongst  the 
raining  bullets.  ** There's  our  objective," 
shouted  Johnny  as  they  ran.  **That  rise — 
come  into  action  there. ' '  Eatty  stared  aghast 
at  the  rise,  and  at  the  spouting  columns  of 
smoke  and  dirt  that  leaped  from  it  under  a 
steady  fall  of  heavy  shells.  ^'That,"  he 
screeched  back,  "Gorstrewth.  Good-bye  us 
then."  But  he  ran  on  as  well  as  he  could 
under  the  weight  of  the  gun  on  his  shoulder. 
They  were  both  well  out  to  the  left  of  their 
advancing  line  and  Ratty  was  instinctively 
flinching  from  the  direct  route  into  those 
gusts  of  flame  and  smoke.  "Keep  up," 
yelled  Johnny.  ''Remember  the  trench. 
You'll  miss  the  end  of  it."  Ratty  recalled 
vaguely  the  line  of  flags  and  tape  that  had 
wriggled  over  the  practice  ground  to  the  last 
position  where  they  had  halted  each  day  and 
brought  their  guns  into  mimic  action.  He 
knew  he  would  have  slanted  to  the  right  to 
hit  the  trench  end  there,  so  here  he   also 


292  FRONT  LINES 

slanted  riglit  and  presently  stumbled  thank- 
fully into  the  broken  trench,  and  pushed 
along  it  up  the  rise.  At  the  top  he  found  him- 
self looking  over  a  gentle  slope,  the  foot  of 
which  was  veiled  in  an  eddying  mist  of  smoke. 
A  heavy  shell  burst  with  a  terrifying  crash 
and  sent  him  reeling  from  the  shock.  He  sat 
down  with  a  bump,  shaken  and  for  the  mo- 
ment dazed,  but  came  to  himself  with  John- 
ny's voice  bawling  in  his  ear,  *  *  Come  on,  man, 
come  on.  Hurt?  Quick  then — ^yergun."  He 
staggered  up  and  towards  an  officer  whom  he 
could  see  waving  frantically  at  him  and  open- 
ing and  shutting  his  mouth  in  shouts  that 
were  lost  in  the  uproar.  He  thrust  forward 
and  into  a  shell-hole  beside  Johnny  and  the 
rest  of  the  gun  detachment.  His  sergeant 
jumped  down  beside  them  shouting  and  point- 
ing out  into  the  smoke  wreaths.  *'See  the 
wood  .  .  .  six     hundred  .  .  .  lay     on     the 

ground-line — they're  counter-attack "  He 

stopped  abruptly  and  fell  sliding  in  a  tumbled 
heap  down  the  crater  side  on  top  of  the  gun. 
The  officer  ran  back  mouthing  unheard  angry 
shouts  at  them  again.     Ratty  was  getting 


ACCORDING  TO  PLAN  293 

angry  himself.  How  could  a  man  get  into 
action  with  a  fellow  falling  all  over  his  gun 
like  that?  They  dragged  the  sergeant's 
twitching  body  clear  and  Ratty  felt  a  pang  of 
regret  for  his  anger.  He'd  been  a  good  chap, 
the  sergeant.  .  .  .  But  anger  swallowed  him 
again  as  he  dragged  his  gun  clear.  It  was 
drenched  with  blood.  ' '  Nice  bizness, ' '  he  said 
savagely,  *'if  my  breech  action's  clogged  up." 
A  loaded  belt  slipped  into  place  and  he 
brought  the  gun  into  action  with  a  savage 
jerk  on  the  loading  lever,  looked  over  his 
sights,  and  layed  them  on  the  edge  of  the 
wood  he  could  just  dimly  see  through  the 
smoke.  He  could  see  nothing  to  fire  at — 
cursed  smoke  was  so  thick — ^but  the  others 
were  firing  hard — ^must  be  something  there. 
He  pressed  his  thumbs  on  the  lever  and  his 
gun  began  to  spurt  a  stream  of  fire  and  lead, 
the  belt  racing  and  clicking  through,  the 
breech  clacking  smoothly,  the  handles  jarring 
sharply  in  his  fingers. 

The  hillock  was  still  under  heavy  shell-fire. 
They  had  been  warned  in  practice  attack  that 
there  would  probably  be  shell-fire,  and  here 


294  FRONT  LINES 

it  was,  shrieking,  crashing,  tearing  the 
wrecked  ground  to  fresh  shapes  of  wreckage, 
spouting  in  fountains  of  black  smoke  and 
earth,  whistling  and  hurtling  in  jagged  frag- 
ments, hitting  solidly  and  bursting  in  whirl- 
winds of  flame  and  smoke.  Ratty  had  no 
time  to  think  of  the  shells.  He  strained  his 
eyes  over  the  sights  on  the  foot  of  the  dimly 
seen  trees,  held  his  gun  steady  and  spitting 
its  jets  of  flame  and  lead,  until  word  came  to 
him,  somehow  or  from  somewhere  to  cease 
firing.  The  attack  had  been  wiped  out,  he 
heard  said.  He  straightened  his  bent  shoul- 
ders and  discovered  with  immense  surprise 
that  one  shoulder  hurt,  that  his  jacket  was 
soaked  with  blood. 

''Nothing  more  than  a  good  Blighty  one," 
said  the  bearer  who  tied  him  up.  "Keep  you 
home  two-three  months  mebbe." 

' '  Good  enough, ' '  said  Ratty.  '  *  I  '11  be  back 
in  time  to  see  the  finish,"  and  lit  a  cigarette 
contentedly. 

Back  in  the  Aid  Post  later  he  heard  from 
one  of  the  Jocks  who  had  been  down  there  in 
the  smoke  somewhere  between  the  machine- 


ACCORDING  TO  PLAN  295 

guns  and  the  wood,  that  the  front  line  was 
already  well  consolidated.  He  heard  too  that 
the  German  counter-attack  had  been  cut  to 
pieces,  and  that  the  open  ground  before  our 
new  line  front  was  piled  with  their  dead. 
*'You  fellies  was  just  late  enough  wi'  your 
machine-guns,"  said  the  Highlander.  "In 
anither  three-fower  meenits  they'd  a  been 
right  on  top  o '  us. " 

**Late  be  blowed,"  said  Ratty.  *'We  was 
on  the  right  spot  exackly  at  the  programme 
time  o'  the  plan.  We'd  rehearsed  the  dash 
thing  an'  clocked  it  too  often  for  me  not  to 
be  sure  o'  that.  We  was  there  just  when  we 
was  meant  to  be,  an'  that  was  just  when  they 
knew  we'd  be  wanted.  Whole  plunky  attack 
went  like  clockwork,  far's  our  bit  o'  the  plans 
went." 

But  it  was  two  days  later  and  snug  in  bed 
in  a  London  hospital,  when  he  had  read  the 
dispatches  describing  the  battle,  that  he  had 
his  last  word  on  ''planned  attacks." 

"Lumme,"  he  said  to  the  next  bed,  "I  likes 
this  dispatch  of  ole  'Indenburg's.  Good  mile 
an'  a  half  we  pushed  'em  back,  an'  held  all 


296  FRONT  LINES 

the  ground,  an'  took  6,000  prisoners;  an^ 
says  'Indenburg,  'the  British  attack  was  com- 
pletely repulsed  .  .  .  only  a  few  crater  posi- 
tions were  abandoned  by  us  according  to 
plan.'  " 

He  dropped  the  paper  and  grinned.  **Ac- 
cordin'  to  plan,"  he  said.  ''That's  true 
enough.  But  'e  forgot  to  say  it  was  the  same 
as  it  always  is — accordin'  to  the  plan  that  was 
made  by  'Aig  an'  us." 


XVII 
DOWN  IN  HUNLAND 

It  was  cold — bitterly,  bitingly,  fiercely  cold. 
It  was  also  at  intervals  wet,  and  misty,  and 
snowy,  as  the  'plane  ran  by  turns  through 
various  clouds ;  but  it  was  the  cold  that  was 
uppermost  in  the  minds  of  pilot  and  observer 
as  they  flew  through  the  darkness.  They  were 
on  a  machine  of  the  night-bombing  squadron, 
and  the  *' Night-Fliers "  in  winter  weather 
take  it  more  or  less  as  part  of  the  night's 
work  that  they  are  going  to  be  out  in  cold  and 
otherwise  unpleasant  weather  conditions ;  but 
the  cold  this  night  was,  as  the  pilot  put  it  in 
his  thoughts,  ''over  the  odds." 

It  was  the  Night-Fliers'  second  trip  over 
Hunland.  The  first  trip  had  been  a  short  one 
to  a  near  objective,  because  at  the  beginning 
of  the  night  the  weather  looked  too  doubtful 
to  risk  a  long  trip.  But  before  they  had  come 
back  the  weather  had  cleared,  and  the  Squad- 

297 


298  FRONT  LINES 

ron  Commander,  after  full  deliberation,  had 
decided  to  chance  the  long  trip  and  bomb  a 
certain  place  which  he  knew  it  was  urgent 
should  be  damaged  as  much  and  as  soon  as 
possible. 

All  this  meant  that  the  Fliers  had  the  short- 
est possible  space  of  time  on  the  ground  be- 
tween the  two  trips.  Their  machines  were 
loaded  up  with  fresh  supplies  of  bombs  just 
as  quickly  as  it  could  be  done,  the  petrol  and 
oil  tanks  refilled,  expended  rounds  of  ammu- 
nition for  the  machine-guns  replaced.  Then, 
one  after  another,  the  machines  steered  out 
into  the  darkness  across  the  'drome  ground 
towards  a  twinkle  of  light  placed  to  guide 
them,  wheeled  round,  gave  the  engine  a  pre- 
liminary whirl,  steadied  it  down,  opened  her 
out  again,  and  one  by  one  at  intervals  lum- 
bered off  at  gathering  speed,  and  soared  off 
up  into  the  darkness. 

The  weather  held  until  the  objective  was 
reached,  although  glances  astern  showed  om- 
inous clouds  banking  up  and  darkening  the 
sky  behind  them.  The  bombs  were  loosed  and 
seen  to  strike  in  leaping  gusts  of  flame  on  the 


DOWN  IN  HUNLAND  299 

ground  below,  while  searchliglits  stabbed  up 
into  the  sky  and  groped  ronnd  to  find  the  raid- 
ers, and  the  Hun  ** Archies"  spat  sharp 
tongues  of  flame  up  at  them.  Several  times 
the  shells  burst  near  enough  to  be  heard 
above  the  roar  of  the  engine;  but  one  after 
another  the  Night  Fliers  "dropped  the  eggs" 
and  wheeled  and  drove  off  for  home,  the  ob- 
servers leaning  over  and  picking  up  any  vis- 
ible speck  of  light  or  the  flickering  spurts  of 
a  machine-gun's  fire  and  loosing  off  quick 
bursts  of  fire  at  these  targets.  But  every 
pilot  knew  too  well  the  meaning  of  those  bank- 
ing clouds  to  the  west,  and  was  in  too  great 
haste  to  get  back  to  spend  time  hunting  tar- 
gets for  their  machine-guns ;  and  each  opened 
his  engine  out  and  drove  hard  to  reach  the 
safety  of  our  own  lines  before  thick  weather 
could  catch  and  bewilder  them. 

The  leaders  had  escaped  fairly  lightly — 
''Atcha"  and  **Beta"  having  only  a  few 
wides  to  dodge;  but  their  followers  kept 
catching  it  hotter  and  hotter. 

The  "Osca"  was  the  last  machine  to  ar- 
rive at  the  objective  and  deliver  her  bombs 


300  FRONT  LINES 

and  swing  for  home,  and  because  she  was  the 
last  she  came  in  for  the  fully  awakened  de- 
fence's warmest  welcome,  and  wheeled  with 
searchlights  hunting  for  her,  with  Archie 
shells  coughing  round,  with  machine-guns 
spitting  fire  and  their  bullets  zizz-izz-ipping 
up  past  her,  with  "flaming  onions*'  curving 
up  in  streaks  of  angry  red  fire  and  falling 
blazing  to  earth  again.  A  few  of  the  bullets 
ripped  and  rapped  viciously  through  the  fab- 
ric of  her  wings,  but  she  suffered  no  further 
damage,  although  the  fire  was  hot  enough  and 
close  enough  to  make  her  pilot  and  observer 
breathe  sighs  of  relief  as  they  droned  out 
into  the  darkness  and  left  all  the  devilment 
of  fire  and  lights  astern. 

The  word  of  the  Night-Fliers '  raid  had  evi- 
dently gone  abroad  through  the  Hun  lines 
however,  and  as  they  flew  west  they  could  see 
searchlight  after  light  switching  and  scything 
through  the  dark  in  search  of  them.  Red- 
mond, or  *'Reddie,"  the  pilot,  was  a  good 
deal  more  concerned  over  the  darkening  sky, 
and  the  cold  that  by  now  was  piercing  to  his 
bones,  than  he  was  over  the  searchlights  or 


DOWN  IN  HUNLAND  301 

the  chance  of  running  into  further  Archie  fire. 
He  lifted  the  ^'Osca"  another  500  feet  as  he 
flew,  and  drove  on  with  his  eyes  on  the  com- 
pass and  on  the  cloud  banks  ahead  in  turn. 

Flying  conditions  do  not  lend  themselves 
to  conversation  between  pilot  and  observer, 
but  once  or  twice  the  two  exchanged  remarks, 
very  brief  and  boiled-down  remarks,  on  their 
position  and  the  chances  of  reaching  the  lines 
before  they  ran  into  ''the  thick."  That  a 
thick  was  coming  was  painfully  clear  to  both. 
The  sky  by  now  was  completely  darkened,  and 
the  earth  below  was  totally  and  utterly  lost 
to  sight.  The  pilot  had  his  compass,  and  his 
compass  only,  left  to  guide  him,  and  he  kept 
a  very  close  and  attentive  eye  on  that  and  his 
instrument  denoting  height.  Their  bombing 
objective  had  been  a  long  way  behind  the  Ger- 
man lines,  but  Reddie  and  "Walk"  Jones,  the 
observer,  were  already  beginning  to  congrat- 
ulate themselves  on  their  nearness  to  the  lines 
and  the  probability  of  escaping  the  storm, 
when  the  storm  suddenly  whirled  down  upon 
them. 

It  came  without  warning,  although  warn- 


302  FRONT  LINES 

ing  would  have  been  of  little  use,  since  they 
could  do  nothing  but  continue  to  push  for 
home.  One  minute  they  were  flying,  in  dark- 
ness it  is  true,  but  still  in  a  clear  air;  the 
next  they  were  simply  barging  blindly 
through  a  storm  of  rain  which  probably 
poured  straight  down  to  earth,  but  which  to 
them,  flying  at  some  scores  of  miles  per  hour, 
was  driving  level  and  with  the  force  of  whip 
cuts  full  in  their  faces.  Both  pilot  and  ob- 
server were  blinded.  The  water  cataracting 
on  their  goggles  cut  off  all  possibility  of 
sight,  and  Reddie  could  not  even  see  the  com- 
pass in  front  of  him  or  the  gleam  of  light 
that  illuminated  it.  He  held  the  machine  as 
steady  and  straight  on  her  course  as  instinct 
and  a  sense  of  direction  would  allow  him,  and 
after  some  minutes  they  passed  clear  of  the 
rain-storm.  Everything  was  streaming  wet — 
their  faces,  their  goggles,  their  clothes,  and 
everything  they  touched  in  the  machine.  Eed- 
die  mopped  the  wet  off  his  compass  and 
peered  at  it  a  moment,  and  then  with  an  an- 
gry exclamation  pushed  rudder  and  joy-stick 
over  and  swung  round  to  a  direction  fairly 


DOWN  IN  HUNLAND  303 

opposite  to  the  one  they  had  been  travelling. 
Apparently  he  had  turned  completely  round 
in  the  minutes  through  the  rain — once  round 
at  least,  and  Heaven  only  knew  how  many 
more  times. 

They  flew  for  a  few  minutes  in  compara- 
tively clear  weather,  and  then,  quite  sud- 
denly, they  whirled  into  a  thick  mist  cloud. 
At  first  both  Reddie  and  ''Walk''  thought  it 
was  snow,  so  cold  was  the  touch  of  the  wet 
on  their  faces;  but  even  when  they  found  it 
was  no  more  than  a  wet  mist  cloud  they  were 
little  better  off,  because  again  both  were  com- 
pletely blinded  so  far  as  seeing  how  or  where 
they  were  flying  went.  Reddie  developed  a 
sudden  fear  that  he  was  holding  the  ma- 
chine's nose  down,  and  in  a  quick  revulsion 
pulled  the  joy-stick  back  until  he  could  feel 
her  rear  and  swoop  upwards.  He  was  left 
with  a  sense  of  feeling  only  to  guide  him.  He 
could  see  no  faintest  feature  of  the  instru- 
ment-board in  front  of  him,  had  to  depend  en- 
tirely on  his  sense  of  touch  and  feel  and  in- 
stinct to  know  whether  the  "Osca"  was  on  a 


304  FEONT  LINES 

level  keel,  flying  forward,  or  up  or  down,  or 
lying  right  over  on  either  wing  tip. 

The  mist  cleared,  or  they  flew  clear  of  it, 
as  suddenly  as  they  had  entered  it,  and  Red- 
die  found  again  that  he  had  lost  direction, 
was  flying  north  instead  of  west.  He  brought 
the  'bus  round  again  and  let  her  drop  until 
the  altimeter  showed  a  bare  two  hundred  feet 
above  the  ground  and  peered  carefully  down 
for  any  indication  of  his  whereabouts.  He 
could  see  nothing — blank  nothing,  below,  or 
above,  or  around  him.  He  lifted  again  to  the 
thousand-foot  mark  and  drove  on  towards  the 
west.  He  figured  that  they  ought  to  be  com- 
ing somewhere  near  the  lines  now,  but  better 
be  safe  than  sorry,  and  he'd  get  well  clear  of 
Hunland  before  he  chanced  coming  down. 

Then  the  snow  shut  down  on  them.  If  they 
had  been  blinded  before,  they  were  doubly 
blind  now.  It  was  not  only  that  the  whirling 
flakes  of  snow  shut  out  any  sight  in  front  of 
or  around  them;  it  drove  clinging  against 
their  faces,  their  glasses,  their  bodies,  and 
froze  and  was  packed  hard  by  the  wind  of 
their  own  speed  as  they  flew.  And  it  was  cold. 


DOWN  IN  HUNLAND  305 

bone-  and  marrow-piercing  cold.  Reddie  lost 
all  sense  of  direction  again,  all  sense  of 
whether  he  was  flying  forward,  or  up  or  down, 
right  side  or  wrong  side  up.  He  even  lost 
any  sense  of  time ;  and  when  the  scud  cleared 
enough  for  him  to  make  out  the  outline  of  his 
instruments  he  could  not  see  the  face  of  his 
clock,  his  height  or  speed  recorders,  or  any- 
thing else,  until  he  had  scraped  the  packed 
snow  off  them. 

But  this  time,  according  to  the  compass,  he 
was  flying  west  and  in  the  right  direction. 
So  much  he  just  had  time  to  see  when  they 
plunged  again  into  another  whirling  smother 
of  fine  snow.  They  flew  through  that  for  min- 
utes which  might  have  been  seconds  or  hours 
for  all  the  pilot  knew.  He  could  see  nothing 
through  his  clogged  goggles,  that  blurred  up 
faster  than  he  could  wipe  them  clear ;  he  could 
hear  nothing  except,  dully,  the  roar  of  his 
engine;  he  could  feel  nothing  except  the  grip 
of  the  joy-stick,  numbly,  through  his  thick 
gloves.  He  kept  the  ''Osca"  flying  level  by 
sheer  sense  of  feel,  and  at  times  had  all  he 
could  do  to  fight  back  a  wave  of  panic  which 


306  FRONT  LINES 

rushed  on  him  with  a  belief  that  the  machine 
was  side-slipping  or  falling  into  a  spin  that 
would  bring  him  crashing  to  earth. 

When  the  snow  cleared  again  and  he  was 
able  to  see  his  lighted  instruments  he  made 
haste  to  brush  them  clear  of  snow  and  peer 
anxiously  at  them.  He  found  he  was  a  good 
thousand  feet  up  and  started  at  once  to  lift 
a  bit  higher  for  safety's  sake.  By  the  com- 
pass he  was  still  flying  homeward,  and  by  the 
time — ^the  time — he  stared  hard  at  his  clock 
.  .  .  and  found  it  was  stopped.  But  the  pe- 
trol in  his  main  tank  was  almost  run  out,  and 
according  to  that  he  ought  to  be  well  over  the 
British  lines — if  he  had  kept  anything  like  a 
straight  course.  He  held  a  brief  and  shouted 
conversation  with  his  observer.  *  *  Don 't  know 
where  I  am.  Lost.  Think  we're  over  our 
lines." 

''Shoot  a  light,  eh?"  answered  the  ob- 
server, ''and  try  'n'  land.    I'm  frozen  stiff." 

They  both  peered  anxiously  out  round  as 
their  Verey  light  shot  out  and  floated  down ; 
but  they  could  see  no  sign  of  a  flare  or  an 
answering  light.    They  fired  another  signal, 


DOWN  IN  HUNLAND  307 

and  still  had  no  reply;  and  then,  '^'m  going 
down,"  yelled  the  pilot,  shutting  off  his  en- 
gine and  letting  the  machine  glide  down  in  a 
slow  sweeping  circle.  He  could  see  nothing 
of  the  ground  when  the  altimeter  showed  500 
feet,  nor  at  300,  nor  at  200,  so  opened  the 
throttle  and  picked  up  speed  again.  *  *  Shove 
her  down, '  *  yelled  the  observer.    *  *  More  snow 


coming. ' ' 


Another  Verey  light,  shot  straight  down 
overboard,  showed  a  glimpse  of  a  grass  field, 
and  Reddie  swung  gently  round,  and  slid 
downward  again.  At  the  same  time  he  fired 
a  landing  light  fixed  out  under  his  lower  wing- 
tip  in  readiness  for  just  such  an  occasion  as 
this,  and  by  its  glowing  vivid  white  light 
made  a  fairly  good  landing  on  rough  grass 
land.  He  shut  the  engine  off  at  once,  because 
he  had  no  idea  how  near  he  was  to  the  edge 
of  the  field  or  what  obstacles  they  might 
bump  if  they  taxied  far,  and  the  machine 
came  quickly  to  rest.  The  two  men  sat  still 
for  a  minute  breathing  a  sigh  of  thankfulness 
that  they  were  safe  to  ground,  then  turned 
and  looked  at  each  other  in  the  dying  light 


308  FRONT  LINES 

of  the  flare.  Stiflfly  they  stood  up,  climbed 
clumsily  out  of  their  places,  and  down  on  to 
the  wet  ground.  Another  flurry  of  snow  was 
falling,  but  now  that  they  were  at  rest  the 
snow  was  floating  and  drifting  gently  down 
instead  of  beating  in  their  faces  with  hurri- 
cane force  as  it  did  when  they  were  flying. 

Reddie  flapped  his  arms  across  his  chest 
and  stamped  his  numbed  feet.  Walk  Jones 
pulled  his  gloves  off  and  breathed  on  his  stiff 
fingers.  **I'm  fair  froze,*'  he  mumbled. 
**  Wonder  where  we  are,  and  how  far  from  the 
'drome  t ' ' 

' '  Lord  knows, ' '  returned  Reddie.  *  *  I  don 't 
know  even  where  the  line  is — ahead  or  astern, 
right  hand  or  left." 

"Snow's  clearing  again,"  said  Jones. 
*' Perhaps  we'll  get  a  bearing  then,  and  I'll 
go  'n'  hunt  for  a  camp  or  a  cottage,  or  any- 
one that'll  give  us  a  hot  drink." 

**Wait  a  bit,"  said  Reddie.  ** Stand  where 
you  are  and  let's  give  a  yell.  Some  sentry  or 
someone's  bound  to  hear  us.  Snow's  stop- 
ping all  right;  but,  Great  Scott!  isn't  it 
dark." 


DOWN  IN  HUNLAND  309 

Presently  they  lifted  their  voices  and  yelled 
an  "Ahoy"  together  at  the  pitch  of  their 
lungs.  There  was  no  answer,  and  after  a 
pause  they  yelled  again,  still  without  audible 
result. 

' '  Oh,  curse ! ' '  said  Jones,  shivering.  *  *  I  'm 
not  going  to  hang  about  here  yelping  like  a 
lost  dog.  And  we  might  hunt  an  hour  for  a 
cottage.  I'm  going  to  get  aboard  again  and 
loose  off  a  few  rounds  from  my  machine-gun 
into  the  ground.  That  will  stir  somebody  up 
and  bring  'em  along." 

''There's  the  line,"  said  Reddie  suddenly. 
*'Look!"  and  he  pointed  to  where  a  faint 
glow  rose  and  fell,  lit  and  faded,  along  the 
horizon.  "And  the  guns,"  he  added,  as  they 
saw  a  sheet  of  light  jump  somewhere  in  the 
distance  and  heard  the  bump  of  the  report. 
Other  gun-flashes  flickered  and  beat  across 
the  dark  sky.  "Funny,"  said  Reddie;  "I'd 
have  sworn  I  turned  round  as  we  came  down, 
and  I  thou2cht  the  lines  were  dead  the  other 


way. 

The  observer  was  fumbling  about  to  get  his 
foot  in  the  step.    "I  thought  they  were  way 


310  FRONT  LINES 

out  to  the  right,"  he  said.  '*But  I  don't  care 
a  curse  where  they  are.  I  want  a  camp  or  a 
French  cottage  with  coffee  on  the  stove.  I'll 
see  if  I  can't  shoot  somebody  awake." 

''Try  one  more  shout  first,"  said  Reddie, 
and  they  shouted  together  again. 

''Got  'im,"  said  Reddie  joyfully,  as  a  faint 
hail  came  in  response,  and  Jones  took  his  foot 
off  the  step  and  began  to  fumble  under  his 
coat  for  a  torch.  "Here!"  yelled  Reddie. 
"This  way!    Here!" 

They  heard  the  answering  shouts  draw 
nearer,  and  then,  just  as  Jones  found  his 
torch  and  was  pulling  it  out  from  under  his 
coat,  Reddie  clutched  at  his  arm.    "What — 

what  was  it "  he  gasped.    "Did  you  hear 

what  they  called?" 

"No,  couldn't  understand,"  said  Jones  in 
some  surprise  at  the  other's  agitation. 
"They're  French,  I  suppose;  farm  people, 
most  like." 

"It  was  German/'  said  Reddie  hurriedly. 
"There  again,  hear  that?  We've  dropped  m 
Eimland/' 

"Hu-Hunland!"   stammered  Jones;   then 


DOWN  IN  HUNLAND  311 

desperately,  **rt  can't  be.  You  sure  it  isn't 
French — Flemish,  perhaps?" 

"Flemish — here,"  said  Reddie,  dismissing 
the  idea,  as  Jones  admitted  he  might  well  do, 
so  far  south  in  the  line.  * '  I  know  little  enough 
German,  but  I  know  French  well  enough;  and 
that's  not  French.    We're  done  in.  Walk." 

'* Couldn't  we  bolt  for  it,"  said  Walk,  look- 
ing hurriedly  round.  "It's  dark,  and  we 
know  where  the  lines  are." 

"What  hope  of  getting  through  them?" 
said  Reddie,  speaking  in  quick  whispers. 
"But  we've  got  a  better  way.  We'll  make  a 
try.  Here,  quickly,  and  quiet  as  you  can — 
get  to  the  prop  and  swing  it  when  I'm  ready. 
We'll  chance  a  dash  for  it." 

Both  knew  the  chances  against  them,  knew 
that  in  front  of  the  machine  might  lie  a  ditch, 
a  tree,  a  hedge,  a  score  of  things  that  would 
trip  them  as  they  taxied  to  get  speed  to  rise ; 
they  knew  too  that  the  Germans  were  coming 
closer  every  moment,  that  they  might  be  on 
them  before  they  could  get  the  engine  started, 
that  they  would  probably  start  shooting  at 
the  first  sound  of  her  start.    All  these  things 


312  FRONT  LINES 

and  a  dozen  others  raced  through  their  minds 
in  an  instant;  but  neither  hesitated,  both 
moved  promptly  and  swiftly.  Reddie  clam- 
bered up  and  into  his  seat;  Walk  Jones 
jumped  to  the  propeller,  and  began  to  wind 
it  backwards  to  "suck  in"  the  petrol  to  the 
cylinders.  ''When  she  starts,  jump  to  the 
wing-tip  and  try  'n'  swdng  her  round,"  called 
Reddie  in  quick  low  tones.  ''It'll  check  her 
way.  Then  you  must  jump  for  it,  and  hang 
on  and  climb  in  as  we  go.  Yell  when  you're 
aboard.    All  ready  now. ' ' 

A  shout  came  out  of  the  darkness — a  shout 
and  an  obvious  question  in  German.  "Con- 
tact," said  Walk  Jones,  and  swung  the  pro- 
peller his  hardest.  He  heard  the  whirr  of 
the  starter  as  Reddie  twirled  it  rapidly. 
"Off,"  called  Jones  as  he  saw  the  engine  was 
not  giving  sign  of  life,  and  "Off"  answered 
Reddie,  cutting  off  the  starting  current. 

Another  shout  came,  and  with  it  this  time 
what  sounded  like  an  imperative  command. 
Reddie  cursed  his  lack  of  knowledge  of  Ger- 
man. He  could  have  held  them  in  play  a  min- 
ute if "Contact,"  came  Walk's  voice 


DOWN  IN  HUNLAND  313 

again.  * '  Contact, ' '  he  answered,  and  whirled 
the  starter  madly  again.  There  was  still  no 
movement,  no  spark  of  life  from  the  engine. 
Eeddie  groaned,  and  Walk  Jones,  sweating 
despite  the  cold  over  his  exertions  on  the  pro- 
peller, wound  it  back  again  and  swung  it  for- 
ward with  all  his  weight.  His  thick  leather 
coat  hampered  him.  He  tore  it  off  and  flung 
it  to  the  ground,  and  tried  again.. 

So  they  tried  and  failed,  tried  and  failed, 
time  and  again,  while  all  the  time  the  shouts 
were  coming  louder  and  from  different 
points,  as  if  a  party  had  split  up  and  was 
searching  the  field.  A  couple  of  electric 
torches  threw  dancing  patches  of  light  on 
the  ground,  lifted  occasionally  and  flashed 
round.  One  was  coming  straight  towards 
them,  and  Reddie  with  set  teeth  waited  the 
shout  of  discovery  he  knew  must  come  pres- 
ently, and  cursed  Walk's  slowness  at  the 
*'prop." 

Again  on  the  word  he  whirled  the  starter, 
and  this  time  ' '  Whur-r-r-rum, ' '  answered  the 
engine,  suddenly  leaping  to  life ;  '  *  Whur-r-r- 
ROO-00-OO-OOM-wr-r-r-umph,"  as  Reddie 


314  FRONT  LINES 

eased  and  opened  the  throttle.  He  heard  a 
babel  of  shouts  and  yells,  and  saw  the  light- 
patches  come  dancing  on  the  run  towards 
them.  A  sudden  recollection  of  the  only  two 
German  words  he  knew  came  to  him.  "Ja 
wohl,"  he  yelled  at  the  pitch  of  his  voice, 
"Ja  wohl";  then  in  lower  hurried  tones, 
''Swing  her,  Walk;  quick,  swing  her,"  and 
opened  the  engine  out  again.  The  running 
lights  stopped  for  a  minute  at  his  yell,  and 
Walk  Jones  jumped  to  the  wing-tip,  shouted 
' '  Right ! ' '  and  hung  on  while  Eeddie  started 
to  taxi  the  machine  forward.  His  weight 
and  leverage  brought  her  lumbering  round, 
the  roar  of  engine  and  propeller  rising  and 
sinking  as  Eeddie  manipulated  the  throttle, 
and  Reddie  yelling  his  ''Ja  wohl,'*  every 
time  the  noise  died  down. 

''Get  in.  Walk;  get  aboard,"  he  shouted, 
when  the  nose  was  round  and  pointing  back 
over  the  short  stretch  they  had  taxied  on 
landing,  and  which  he  therefore  knew  was 
clear  running  for  at  least  a  start.  He  heard 
another  order  screamed  in  German,  and  next 
instant  the  bang  of  a  rifle,  not  more  appar- 


DOWN  IN  HUNLAND  315 

ently  tlian  a  score  of  yards  away.  He  kept 
the  machine  lumbering  forward,  restraining 
himself  from  opening  his  engine  out,  wait- 
ing in  an  agony  of  apprehension  for  Walk's 
shout.  He  felt  the  machine  lurch  and  sway, 
and  the  kicking  scramble  his  observer  made 
to  board  her,  heard  next  instant  his  yelling 
*'Eight-oh!''  and  opened  the  throttle  full  as 
another  couple  of  rifles  bang-banged. 

The  rifles  had  little  terror  either  for  him 
or  the  observer,  because  both  knew  there  were 
bigger  and  deadlier  risks  to  run  in  the  next 
few  seconds.  There  were  still  desperately 
long  odds  against  their  attempt  succeeding. 
In  the  routine  method  of  starting  a  machine, 
chocks  are  placed  in  front  of  the  wheels  and 
the  engine  is  given  a  short  full-power  run 
and  a  longer  easier  one  to  warm  the  engine 
and  be  sure  all  is  well;  then  the  chocks  are 
pulled  away  and  she  rolls  off,  gathering  speed 
as  she  goes,  until  she  has  enough  for  her 
pilot  to  lift  her  into  the  air.  Here,  their  en- 
gine was  stone  cold,  they  knew  nothing  of 
what  lay  in  front  of  them,  might  crash  into 
something  before  they  left  the  ground,  might 


316  FRONT  LINES 

rise,  and  even  then  catcli  some  house  or  tree- 
top,  and  travelling  at  the  speed  they  would 
by  then  have  attained — well,  the  Lord  help 
them! 

Eeddie  had  to  chance  everything,  and  yet 
throw  away  no  shadow  of  a  chance.  He 
opened  the  throttle  wide,  felt  the  machine 
gather  speed,  bumping  and  jolting  horribly 
over  the  rough  field,  tried  to  peer  down  at 
the  ground  to  see  how  fast  they  moved,  could 
see  nothing,  utterly  black  nothing,  almost 
panicked  for  one  heart-stilling  instant  as  he 
looked  ahead  again  and  thought  he  saw  the 
blacker  shadow  of  something  solid  in  front  of 
him,  clenched  his  teeth  and  held  straight  on 
until  he  felt  by  the  rush  of  wind  on  his  face 
he  had  way  enough,  and  pulled  the  joy-stick 
in  to  him.  With  a  sigh  of  relief  he  felt  the 
jolting  change  to  a  smooth  swift  rush,  held 
his  breath,  and  with  a  pull  on  the  stick 
zoomed  her  up,  levelled  her  out  again  (should 
clear  anything  but  a  tall  tree  now),  zoomed 
her  up  again.  He  felt  a  hand  thumping  on 
his  shoulder,  heard  Walk's  wild  exultant 
yell — ' '  'Ra-a-ay ! ' '  and,  still  lifting  her  stead- 


DOWN  IN  HUNLAND  317 

ily,  swung  his  machine's  nose  for  the  jump- 
ing lights  that  marked  the  trenches. 

They  landed  safe  on  their  own  'drome 
ground  half  an  hour  after.  The  officer  whose 
duty  it  was  for  the  night  to  look  after  the 
landing-ground  and  light  the  flares  in  an- 
swer to  the  returning  pilots'  signals,  walked 
over  to  them  as  they  came  to  rest. 

''Hullo,  you  two,"  he  said.  "Where  th' 
blazes  you  been  till  this  time!  We'd  just 
about  put  you  down  as  missing." 

Reddie  and  Walk  had  stood  up  in  their 
cock-pits  and,  without  a  spoken  word,  were 
solemnly  shaking  hands. 

Reddie  looked  overboard  at  the  officer  on 
the  ground.  "You  may  believe  it,  Johnny, 
or  you  may  not,"  he  said,  "but  we've  been 
down  into  Hunland." 

"Down  into  hell!"  said  Johnny.  "Quit 
jokin'.    What  kept  you  so  late?" 

"You've  said  it,  Johnny,"  said  Reddie 
soberly.    "Down  into  hell — and  out  again." 

They  shook  hands  again,  solemnly. 


xvni 

THE  FINAL  OBJECTIVE 

It  was  all  apt  to  be  desperately  confusing — 
the  smoke,  the  shapeless  shell-cratered 
ground,  the  deafening  unceasing  tempest  of 
noise — but  out  of  all  this  confusion  and  the 
turmoil  of  their  attack  there  were  one  or  two 
things  that  remained  clear  in  the  mind  of 
Corporal ;  and  after  all  they  were  the  things 
that  counted.  One  was  that  he  was  in  charge 
for  the  moment  of  the  remains  of  the  com- 
pany, that  when  their  last  officer  was  knocked 
out  he.  Corporal  Ackroyd,  had  taken  the  of- 
ficer's  wrist  watch  and  brief  instructions  to 
* '  Carry  on — ^you  know  what  to  do  " ;  and  the 
other  that  they  had,  just  before  the  officer 
was  casualtied,  reached  the  "pink-line  objec- 
tive." 

Without  going  too  closely  into  the  detailed 
methods  of  the  attack — the  normal  methods 

318 


THE  FINAL  OBJECTIVE  319 

of  this  particular  period — it  is  enough  to  say- 
that  three  objective  lines  had  been  marked 
up  on  the  maps  of  the  ground  to  be  taken,  a 
pink,  a  purple,  and  a  "final  objective"  blue- 
black  line.  Between  the  moment  of  occupy- 
ing the  pink  line  and  the  move  to  attack  the 
purple  there  were  some  twelve  minutes  al- 
lowed to  bring  supports  into  position,  to  pour 
further  destructive  artillery  fire  on  the  next 
objective,  and  so  on.  Corporal  Ackroyd,  in 
common  with  the  rest  of  the  battalion,  had 
been  very  fully  instructed  in  the  map  posi- 
tion, and  rehearsed  over  carefully-measured- 
out  ground  in  practice  attack,  and  knew  fairly 
well  the  time-table  laid  down.  Before  the 
officer  was  carried  back  by  the  bearers  he 
gave  one  or  two  further  simple  guiding  rules. 
''Send  back  a  runner  to  report.  If  nobody 
comes  up  to  take  over  in  ten  minutes,  push 
on  to  the  purple  line.  It's  the  sunk  road; 
you  can't  mistake  it.  Keep  close  on  the  bar- 
rage, and  you  can't  go  wrong";  and  finally, 
''Take  my  watch;  it's  synchronised  time." 

Ackroyd  sent  back  his  runner,  and  was 
moving  to  a  position  where  he  could  best 


320  FRONT  LINES 

keep  control  of  the  remains  of  the  company, 
when  there  came  an  interruption. 

''Some  blighter  out  there  flappin'  a  white 
flag,  Corporal,"  reported  a  look-out,  and 
pointed  to  where  an  arm  and  hand  waved 
from  a  shell-hole  a  hundred  yards  to  their 
front.  The  Corporal  was  wary.  He  had 
seen  too  much  of  the  ''white-flag  trick"  to 
give  himself  or  his  men  away,  but  at  the 
same  time  was  keenly  sensible  of  the  advan- 
tage of  getting  a  bunch  of  Germans  on  their 
immediate  front  to  surrender,  rather  than 
have  to  advance  in  face  of  their  fire.  There 
was  not  much  time  to  spare  before  the  laid- 
down  moment  for  the  advance. 

He  half  rose  from  his  cover  and  waved  an 
answer.  Promptly  a  figure  rose  from  the 
shell-hole  and  with  hands  well  over  his  head 
came  running  and  stumbling  over  the  rough 
ground  towards  him.  Three-quarter  way 
over  he  dropped  into  another  shell-hole,  and 
from  there  waved  again.  At  another  reas- 
suring wave  from  Ackroyd  he  rose,  ran  in 
and  flung  himself  down  into  the  shell-hole 
where  the  Corporal  waited.     The  Corporal 


THE  FINAL  OBJECTIVE  321 

met  him  with  his  bayoneted  rifle  at  the  ready 
and  his  finger  on  the  trigger,  and  the  Ger- 
man rose  to  his  knees  shooting  both  hands 
up  into  the  air  with  a  quick  ''Kamerad." 

'*Eight-oh,"  said  Ackroyd.  ''But  where 
is  your  chums  ?    Ain  't  any  more  coming  1 ' ' 

The  German  answered  in  guttural  but  clear 
enough  English,  * '  Mine  comrades  sended  me, 
wherefore — ^because  I  speak  English.  They 
wish  to  kamerad,  to  become  prisoner  if  you 
promise  behave  them  well.  You  no  shoot  if 
they  come." 

"Eight,"  said  Ackroyd  with  another  glance 
at  his  watch.  ''But  you'll  'ave  to  'urry 
them  up.  We're  goin'  to  advance  in  about 
seven  minutes,  and  I'll  promise  nothin'  after 
that.    Signal  'em  in  quick." 

"If  I  to  them  wave  they  will  come,"  an- 
swered the  German.  "But  mine  officer  come 
first  and  make  proper  kamerad." 

"He'll  make  a  proper  bloomin'  sieve  if  he. 
don't  come  quick,"  retorted  Ackroyd.  "The 
barrage  is  due  to  drop  in  less'n  seven  min- 
utes. Signal  'im  along  quick,"  he  repeated 
impatiently,  as  he  saw  the  other  failed  to  un- 


322  FRONT  LINES 

derstand.  The  German  turned  and  made  sig- 
nals, and  at  once  another  figure  came  run- 
ning and  crouching  to  where  they  waited. 
"Mine  officer,"  said  the  first  German,  ''he 
no  speak  English,  so  I  interpret." 

''Tell  'im,"  said  Ackroyd,  "the  shellin* 
will  begin  again  in  five  or  six  minutes,  an' 
the  line  will  advance.  If  he  fetches  'is  men 
in  quick,  they'll  be  all  right,  but  I'll  promise 
nothing  if  they're  not  in  before  then." 

He  waited,  fidgeting  anxiously,  while  this 
was  interpreted,  and  the  officer  returned  an 
answer. 

"He  say  why  needs  you  advance  until  all 
his  men  have  surrender!"  said  the  German. 

"Why?"  exploded  Ackroyd.  "Why?  Does 
'e  think  I'm  the  bloomin'  Commander-in- 
Chief  an'  that  I'm  runnin'  this  show?  Look 
'ere" — ^he  paused  a  moment  to  find  words  to 
put  the  position  clearly  and  quickly.  He 
saw  the  urgency  of  the  matter.  In  another 
few  minutes  the  barrage  would  drop,  and 
the  line  would  begin  to  push  on.  If  by  then 
these  Germans  had  not  surrendered,  they 
would  conclude  that  the  officer  had  not  made 


THE  FINAL  OBJECTIVE  323 

terms  and  they  would  remain  in  cover  and 
fight — which  meant  more  casualties  to  their 
already  unusually  heavy  list.  If  he  could 
get  the  surrender  completed  before  the  mo- 
ment for  advance,  the  next  strip  of  ground 
to  the  '* purple  objective  line"  would  be 
taken  quickly,  easily,  and  cheaply. 

"Now  look  'ere,"  he  said  rapidly.  **You 
must  fix  this  quick.  This  show,  this  push, 
advance,  attack,  is  runnin'  to  a  set  time-table. 
Comprenny?  At  quarter-past — see,  quarter- 
past  ' ' — and  he  thrust  out  the  watch  marking 
eleven  minutes  past — ' '  the  barrage,  the  shell- 
in',  begins,  an'  we  start  on  for  the  next  ob- 
jective  " 

** Start  what?"  interjected  the  interpreter. 
Objective,"     yelled     Ackroyd     angrily. 

Don't  you  know  what  a  blazing  objective 
is?  The  sunk  road  is  our  nex'  objective  line. 
D'you  know  the  sunk  road?" 

"Ja,  ja,  I  knows  the  road,"  agreed  the 
German.  Then  the  officer  interrupted,  and 
the  interpreter  turned  to  explain  matters  to 
him.  *'I  cannot  it  explain  this  objective," 
he  said.    ''Mine  officer  what  is  it  asks?" 


324  FRONT  LINES 

Ackroyd  swore  lustily  and  full-bloodedly, 
but  bit  short  his  oaths.  There  was  no  time  for 
spare  language  now.  ' '  See  here,  tell  'im  this 
quick.  A  objective  is  the  line  we're  told  to 
take,  an'  goes  an'  takes.  The  Commander- 
in-Chief,  'Aig  hisself,  says  where  the  objec- 
tive is,  an'  he  marks  up  a  line  on  the  map 
to  show  where  we  goes  to  an'  where  we  stops. 
There's  a  final  objective  where  we  finishes 
each  push.  D  'you  savvy  that  ?  Every  bit  o ' 
the  move  is  made  at  the  time  laid  down  in  at- 
tack orders.  You  can't  alter  that,  an'  I  can't, 
nor  nobody  else  can't.  Old  'Aig  'e  just  draws 
'is  blue-black  line  on  the  map  and  ses, 
'There's  your  final  objective';  an'  we  just 
goes  an'  takes  it.  Now  'ave  you  got  all  that?" 

The  two  Germans  spoke  rapidly  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  the  Corporal  interrupted  as  he 
noted  the  rising  sound  of  the  gun-fire  and 
the  rapidly-increasing  rush  of  our  shells  over- 
head. ''Here,  'nuff  o'  this!"  he  shouted. 
"There's  no  time — there's  the  barrage  drop- 
pin'  again.  Call  your  men  in  if  your  goin' 
to;  or  push  off  back  an'  we'll  go  'n  fetch  'em 
ourselves.     You  must  get  back  the  both  o' 


THE  FINAL  OBJECTIVE  325 

you.  We're  movin'  on.'*  And  lie  made  a 
significant  motion  with  the  bayonet. 

As  they  rose  crouching  the  roar  of  gun-fire 
rose  to  a  pitch  of  greater  and  more  savage 
intensity;  above  their  heads  rushed  and 
shrieked  a  whirlwind  of  passing  shells;  out 
over  the  open  beyond  them  the  puffing  shell- 
bursts  steadied  down  to  a  shifting  rolling  wall 
of  smoke.  And  out  of  this  smoke  wall  there 
came  running,  first  in  ones  and  twos,  and 
then  in  droves,  a  crowd  of  grey-clad  figures, 
all  with  hands  well  over  their  heads,  some 
with  jerking  and  waving  dirty  white  rags. 

At  the  same  moment  supports  came  strug- 
gling in  to  our  line,  and  the  Corporal  made 
haste  to  hand  over  to  their  officer.  The  pris- 
oners were  being  hastily  collected  for  re- 
moval to  the  rear,  and  our  line  rising  to 
advance,  when  the  interpreter  caught  at  the 
Corporal.  ''Mine  officer  he  say,"  he  shouted, 
"where  is  it  this  fine  ol'  objective?" 

The  Corporal  was  in  rather  happy  mood 
over  the  surrender  and  the  prospect  of  ad- 
vancing without  opposition.  ''Where  is  it?" 
he  retorted.    "Like  'is  bloomin' cheek  askin'. 


326  FRONT  LINES 

You  tell  'im  that  'is  final  objective  is  Doning- 
ton  'All — an '  I  wish  ours  was  'alf  as  pleasant. 
Ours  ain't  far  this  time,  but  we're  off  now 
to  take  it  accordin'  to  attack  orders  an'  time- 
table, like  we  always  does.  An'  we'll  do  it 
just  the  same  fashion — 'cos  'e  knows  us  an' 
we  knows  'im,  an'  knows  'e  don't  ask  wot 
we  can't  do — when  the  day  comes  that  good 
old  'Aig  draws  'is  blue-black  line  beyond  its 
back  doors  an'  tells  us  the  final  objective  is 
Berlin.'' 


XIX 

ARTILLERY  PREPARATION 

It  was  the  sixth  day  of  the  * '  artillery  prepara- 
tion" for  the  attack.  During  the  past  six 
days  the  dispatches  on  both  sides  had  re- 
marked vaguely  that  there  was  ''artillery 
activity,"  or  ''intense  fire,"  or  "occasional 
increase  to  drum  fire."  These  phrases  may 
not  convey  much  to  the  average  dispatch 
reader,  and  indeed  it  is  only  the  Gunners,  and 
especially  the  Field  Batteries  in  the  front 
gun-line,  who  understand  their  meaning  to 
the  full. 

They  had  here  no  picked  "battery  posi- 
tions," because  they  had  been  pushed  up  on 
to  captured  ground  which  they  themselves 
in  a  previous  attack  had  helped  chum  to  a 
muddy  shell-wrecked  wilderness,  had  blasted 
bare  of  any  semblance  of  cover  or  protection. 
The  batteries  were  simply  planted  down  in  a 
long  line  in  the  open,  or  at  best  had  the  guns 

327 


328  FRONT  LINES 

sunk  a  foot  or  two  in  shallow  pits  made  by 
spading  out  the  connecting  rims  of  a  group 
of  shell-holes.  The  gunners,  whether  serving 
at  the  guns  or  taking  their  turn  of  rest,  were 
just  as  open  and  exposed  as  the  guns.  The 
gun  shields  gave  a  little  protection  from  for- 
ward fire  of  bullets,  shrapnel,  or  splinters, 
but  none  from  the  downward,  side,  or  back- 
ward blast  of  high-explosive  shells. 

There  was  no  cover  or  protection  for  guns 
or  men  simply  because  there  had  been  no 
time  or  men  to  spare  for  ' '  digging  in. ' '  The 
field  guns  had  been  pushed  up  to  their  pres- 
ent position  just  as  quickly  as  the  soft  ground 
would  allow  after  the  last  advance,  and  since 
then  had  been  kept  going  night  and  day, 
bringing  up  and  stacking  piles  of  shells  and 
still  keeping  up  a  heavy  fire.  The  return  fire 
from  the  Germans  was  spasmodic,  and  not  to 
be  compared  in  volume  to  ours,  and  yet 
against  ranks  and  rows  of  guns  in  the  bare 
open  it  could  not  fail  to  be  damaging,  and  a 
good  few  of  the  batteries  lost  guns  smashed 
and  many  men  and  officers  killed  and 
wounded. 


ARTILLERY  PREPARATION  829 

But  the  guns,  and  as  far  as  possible  the 
men,  were  replaced,  and  the  weight  of  fire 
kept  up.  The  men  worked  in  shifts,  half  of 
them  keeping  the  guns  going  while  the  others 
ate  and  rested,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  utter 
exhaustion  in  shell-holes  near  the  guns,  which 
continued  to  bang  in  running  bursts  of  "bat- 
tery fire,"  or  crash  out  in  ear-splitting  and 
ground-shaking  four-gun  salvos  within  a 
dozen  or  two  yards  of  the  sleepers'  heads. 
The  sheer  physical  labour  was  cruelly  ex- 
hausting— the  carrying  and  handling  of  the 
shells,  the  effort  to  improvise  sandbag  and 
broken  timber  *' platforms"  under  the  gun 
wheels  to  keep  them  from  sinking  in  the  soft 
ground,  even  the  mere  walking  or  moving 
about  ankle  deep  in  the  sea  of  sticky  mud 
that  surrounded  the  guns  and  clung  in  heavy 
clogging  lumps  to  feet  and  legs.  But  the 
mental  strain  must  have  been  even  worse  in 
the  past  six  days  and  nights  of  constant 
heavy  firing,  and  of  suffering  under  fire. 

Now  on  this,  the  sixth  and  last  day  of  the 
preparation,  the  rate  of  fire  along  the  whole 
line  was  worked  up  to  an  appalling  pitch  of 


/ 


330  FRONT  LINES 

violence.  The  line  of  the  advanced  field  posi- 
tions ran  in  a  narrow  and  irregular  belt,  at 
few  points  more  than  a  couple  of  thousand 
yards  from  the  enemy  line ;  the  batteries  were 
so  closely  placed  that  the  left  flank  gun  of 
one  was  bare  yards  from  the  right  flank  gun 
of  the  next,  and  in  some  groups  were  ranged 
in  double  and  triple  tiers.  Up  and  down  this 
line  for  miles  the  guns  poured  out  shells  as 
hard  as  they  could  go.  Every  now  and  again 
the  enemy  artillery  would  attempt  a  reply, 
and  a  squall  of  shells  would  shriek  and  whistle 
and  crash  down  on  some  part  or  other  of  our 
guns'  line,  catching  a  few  men  here,  killing 
a  handful  there,  smashing  or  overturning  a 
gun  elsewhere — but  never  stopping  or  even 
slacking  the  tornado  of  fire  poured  out  by  the 
British  line. 

Each  battery  had  a  set  rate  of  fire  to  main- 
tain, a  fixed  number  of  rounds  to  place  on 
detailed  targets ;  and  badly  or  lightly  mauled 
or  untouched,  as  might  be,  each  one  per- 
formed its  appointed  task.  In  any  battery 
which  had  lost  many  officers  and  men  only  a 
constant  tremendous  effort  kept  the  guns 


ARTILLERY  PREPARATION  331 

going.  The  men  relieved  from  their  turn  at 
the  guns  crawled  to  the  craters,  where  they 
had  slung  a  ground  sheet  or  two  for  shelter 
from  the  rain,  or  had  scooped  a  shallow  niche 
in  the  side,  ate  their  bully  and  biscuit, 
stretched  their  cramped  muscles,  crept  into 
their  wet  lairs,  wrapped  themselves  in  wet 
blankets  or  coats,  curled  up  and  slept  them- 
selves into  a  fresh  set  of  cramps.  They  were 
lucky  if  they  had  their  spell  off  in  undisturbed 
sleep ;  most  times  they  were  turned  out,  once, 
twice,  or  thrice,  to  help  unload  the  pack  mules 
which  brought  up  fresh  supplies  of  shells,  and 
man-handle  the  rounds  up  from  the  nearest 
points  the  mules  could  approach  over  the 
welter  of  muddy  ground  so  pitted  and  cra- 
tered  that  even  a  mule  could  not  pass  over  it. 
When  their  relief  finished  they  crawled  out 
again  and  took  their  places  on  the  guns,  and 
carried  on.  By  nightfall  every  man  of  them 
was  stiff  with  tiredness,  deafened  and  numb 
with  the  noise  and  shock  of  the  piece's  jar- 
ring recoil,  weary-eyed  and  mind-sick  with 
the  unceasing  twiddling  and  adjusting  of  tiny 
marks  to  minute  scratches  and  strokes  on 


332  FRONT  LINES 

shell  fuses,  sights,  and  range-drums.  The 
deepening  dusk  was  hardly  noticed,  because 
the  running  bursts  of  flame  and  light  kept 
the  dusk  at  bay.  And  dark  night  brought  no 
rest,  no  slackening  of  the  fierce  rate  of  fire, 
or  the  labour  that  maintained  it. 

The  whole  gun-line  came  to  be  revealed  only 
as  a  quivering  belt  of  living  fire.  As  a  gun 
fired  there  flamed  out  in  front  of  the  battery 
a  blinding  sheet  of  light  that  threw  up  every 
detail  of  men  and  guns  and  patch  of  wet 
ground  in  glaring  hot  light  or  hard  black 
silhouette.  On  the  instant,  the  light  vanished 
and  darkness  clapped  down  on  the  tired  eyes, 
to  lift  and  leap  again  on  the  following  instant 
from  the  next  gun's  spurt  of  vivid  sheeting 
flame.  For  solid  miles  the  whole  line  throbbed 
and  pulsed  in  the  same  leaping  and  vanishing 
gusts  of  fire  and  light ;  and  from  either  side, 
from  front,  and  rear,  and  overhead,  came  the 
long  and  unbroken  roaring  and  crashing  and 
banging  and  bellowing  of  the  guns'  reports, 
the  passing  and  the  burst  of  the  shells. 

So  it  went  on  all  night,  and  so  it  went  on 
into  the  grey  hours  of  the  dawn.     As  the 


ARTILLERY  PREPARATION  333 

"zero  hour"  fixed  for  the  attack  approached, 
the  rate  of  fire  worked  up  and  up  to  a  point 
that  appeared  to  be  mere  blind  ravening  fury. 
But  there  was  nothing  blind  about  it.  For  all 
the  speed  of  the  work  each  gun  was  accu- 
rately laid  for  every  round,  each  fuse  was  set 
to  its  proper  tiny  mark,  each  shell  roared 
down  on  its  appointed  target.  The  guns  grew 
hot  to  the  touch,  the  breeches  so  hot  that  oil 
sluiced  into  them  at  intervals  hissed  and 
bubbled  and  smoked  like  fat  in  a  frying  pan, 
as  it  touched  the  metal. 

One  battery  ceased  fire  for  a  few  minutes 
to  allow  some  infantry  supports  to  pass 
through  the  line  and  clear  of  the  blast  of  the 
guns'  fire,  and  the  gunners  took  the  respite 
thankfully,  and  listened  to  the  shaking 
thunder  of  the  other  guns,  the  rumble  and 
wail  and  roar  of  the  shells  that  passed 
streaming  over  their  heads,  sounds  that  up 
to  now  had  been  drowned  out  in  the  nearer 
bang  and  crash  of  their  own  guns. 

As  the  infantry  picked  their  way  out  be- 
tween the  guns  the  "Number  One"  of  the 
nearest  detachment  exchanged  a  few  shouted 


334  FRONT  LINES 

remarks  with  one  of  the  infantry  sergeants. 

''Near  time  to  begin,"  said  the  sergeant, 
glancing  at  his  watch.  ''Busy  time  goin'  to 
be  runnin'  this  next  day  or  two.  You'll  be 
hard  at  it,  too,  I  s'pose." 

"Busy  time!  beginning!"  retorted  the  ar- 
tilleryman, "  I  'm  about  fed  up  o '  busy  times. 
This  battery  hasn't  been  out  of  the  line  or 
out  of  action  for  over  three  months,  an'  been 
more  or  less  under  fire  all  that  time.  We 
haven't  stopped  shootin'  night  or  day  for  a 
week,  and  this  last  24  hours  we  been  at  it  full 
stretch,  hammer  an'  tongs.  Beginnin' — Good 
Lord!  I'm  that  hoarse,  I  can  hardly  croak, 
an*  every  man  here  is  deaf,  dumb,  and  par- 
alysed. I'm  gettin'  to  hate  this  job,  an'  I 
never  want  to  hear  another  gun  or  see  another 
shell  in  my  blanky  life." 

The  infantryman  laughed,  and  hitched  his 
rifle  up  to  move.  "I  s'pose  so,"  he  said. 
"An'  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  them  Fritzes  in 
the  line  you've  been  strafin'  are  feelin'  same 
way  as  you  about  guns  an'  shells — only  more 
so." 

"That's  so,"  agreed  the  Number  One,  and 


ARTILLERY  PREPARATION  335 

turned  to  the  fuse-setters,  urging  them 
hoarsely  to  get  a  stack  of  rounds  ready  for 
the  barrage.  ''We're  just  goin'  to  begin," 
he  said,  "an'  if  this  blaiiky  gun  don't  hump 
herself  in  the  next  hour  or  two  .  .  /' 


STRETCHEK-BEARERS 

Lieutenant  Drew  was  wounded  within  four 
or  five  hundred  yards  of  the  line  from  which 
his  battalion  started  to  attack.  He  caught 
three  bullets  in  as  many  seconds — one  in  the 
arm,  one  in  the  shoulder,  and  one  in  the  side 
— and  went  down  under  them  as  if  he  had 
been  pole-axed.  The  shock  stunned  him  for 
a  little,  and  he  came  to  hazily  to  find  a  couple 
of  the  battalion  stretcher-bearers  trying  to 
lift  him  from  the  soft  mud  in  which  he  was 
half  sunk. 

Drew  was  rather  annoyed  with  them  for 
wanting  to  disturb  him.  He  was  quite  com- 
fortable, he  told  them,  and  all  he  wanted  was 
to  be  left  alone  there.  The  bearers  refused 
to  listen  to  this,  and  insisted  in  the  first  place 
in  slicing  away  some  of  his  clothing — ^which 
still  further  annoyed  Drew  because  the 
weather  was  too  cold  to  dispense  with  clothes 

336 


STRETCHER-BEARERS  337 

— and  putting  some  sort  of  first  field  dress- 
ing on  the  wounds. 

"D'you  think  he  can  walk,  Bill!"  one 
asked  the  other.  "No,"  said  Bill.  *'I  fancy 
he's  got  one  packet  through  the  lung,  an'  if 
he  walks  he  '11  wash  out.    It 's  a  carryin '  job. ' ' 

''Come  on,  then,"  said  the  first.  ''Sooner 
we  start  the  sooner  we're  there." 

Quite  disregarding  Drew's  confused 
grumbles,  they  lifted  and  laid  him  on  a 
stretcher  and  started  to  carry  him  back  to 
the  aid  post. 

If  that  last  sentence  conveys  to  you  any 
picture  of  two  men  lifting  a  stretcher  nicely 
and  smoothly  and  walking  off  at  a  gentle  and 
even  walk,  you  must  alter  the  picture  in  all  its 
details.  The  ground  where  the  lieutenant  had 
fallen,  the  ground  for  many  acres  round  him, 
was  a  half-liquefied  mass  of  mud  churned  up 
into  lumps  and  hummocks  pitted  and  cratered 
with  shell-holes  intersected  with  rivulets  and 
pools  of  water.  When  Drew  was  lifted  on  to 
the  stretcher,  it  sank  until  the  mud  oozed 
out  and  up  from  either  side  and  began  to 
slop  in  over  the  edges.   When  the  bearers  had 


338  FRONT  LINES 

lifted  him  on,  they  moved  each  to  his  own 
end,  and  they  moved  one  step  at  a  time, 
floundering  and  splashing  and  dragging  one 
foot  clear  after  the  other.  When  they  took 
hold  of  the  stretcher  ends  and  lifted,  both 
staggered  to  keep  their  balance  on  the  slip- 
pery foothold ;  and  to  move  forward  each  had 
to  steady  himself  on  one  foot,  wrench  the 
other  up  out  of  the  mud,  plunge  it  forward 
and  into  the  mud  again,  grope  a  minute  for 
secure  footing,  balance,  and  proceed  to  repeat 
the  performance  with  the  other  foot.  The 
stretcher  lurched  and  jolted  and  swayed  side 
to  side,  backward  and  forward.  The  move- 
ment at  first  gave  Drew  severe  stabs  of  pain, 
but  after  a  little  the  pain  dulled  down  into  a 
steady  throbbing  ache. 

The  bearers  had  some  400  or  500  yards  to 
go  over  the  ground  covered  by  the  advance. 
After  this  they  would  find  certain  sketchy 
forms  of  duck-board  walks — if  the  German 
shells  had  not  wiped  them  out — and,  farther 
back,  still  better  and  easier  methods  of 
progress  to  the  aid  post.  But  first  there  was 
this  shell-ploughed  wilderness  to  cross.  Drew 


STRETCHER-BEARERS  339 

remembered  vaguely  what  a  struggle  it  had 
been  to  him  to  advance  that  distance  on  his 
own  feet,  and  carrying  nothing  but  his  own 
weight  and  his  equipment.  It  was  little  won- 
der the  bearers  found  the  same  journey  a 
desperate  effort  with  his  weight  sagging  and 
jolting  between  them  and  pressing  them  down 
in  the  mud. 

In  the  first  five  yards  the  leading  bearer 
slipped,  failed  to  recover  his  balance,  and 
fell,  letting  his  end  down  with  a  jolt  and  a 
splash.  He  rose  smothered  in  a  fresh  coat  of 
wet  mud,  full  of  mingled  curses  on  the  mud 
and  apologies  to  the  wounded  man.  Drew 
slid  off  into  a  half-faint.  He  woke  again 
slowly,  as  the  bearers  worked  through  a  par- 
ticularly soft  patch.  The  mud  was  nearly 
thigh  deep,  and  they  were  forced  to  take  a 
step  forward,  half -lift,  half -drag  the  stretcher 
on,  lay  it  down  while  they  struggled  on 
another  foot  or  two,  turn  and  haul  their  load 
after  them.  It  took  them  a  full  hour  to  move 
a  fair  60  paces. 

The  work  was  not  performed,  either,  with- 
out distractions  other  than  the  mud  and  its 


340  FRONT  LINES 

circumventing,  and  the  trouble  of  picking  the 
best  course.  An  attack  was  in  full  progress, 
and  streams  of  shells  were  screaming  and 
howling  overhead,  with  odd  ones  hurtling 
down  and  bursting  on  the  ground  they  were 
traversing,  flinging  up  gigantic  geysers  of 
spouting  mud,  clods  of  earth,  and  black 
smoke,  erupting  a  whirlwind  of  shrieking 
splinters  and  fragments.  Several  times  the 
bearers  laid  the  stretcher  down  and  crouched 
low  in  the  mud  from  the  warning  roar  of  an 
approaching  shell,  waited  the  muffled  crash 
of  its  burst,  the  passing  of  the  flying  frag- 
ments. From  the  nearer  explosions  a  shower 
of  dirt  and  clods  rained  down  about  them, 
splashing  and  thudding  on  the  wet  ground; 
from  the  farther  ones  an  occasional  piece  of 
metal  would  drop  whistling  or  droning 
angrily  and  ' '  whutt ' '  into  the  mud.  Then  the 
bearers  lifted  their  burden  and  resumed  their 
struggling  advance.  Fortunately  the  waves 
of  attacking  infantry  had  passed  beyond 
them,  and  most  of  the  German  guns  were 
busy  flogging  the  front  lines  and  trying  to 
hold  or  destroy  them;  but  there  were  still 


STRETCHER-BEARERS  341 

shells  enough  being  flung  back  on  the  ground 
they  had  to  cover  to  make  matters  unpleas- 
antly risky.  To  add  to  the  risk  there  was  a 
constant  whistle  and  whine  of  passing  bullets, 
and  every  now  and  then  a  regular  shower  of 
them  whipping  and  smacking  into  the  mud 
about  them,  bullets  not  aimed  at  them,  but 
probably  just  the  chance  showers  aimed  a 
little  too  high  to  catch  the  advancing  attack, 
passing  over  and  coming  to  earth  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  back. 

The  little  party  was  not  alone,  although  the 
ground  was  strangely  empty  and  deserted  to 
what  it  had  been  when  the  attack  went  over. 
There  were  odd  wounded  men,  walking 
wounded  struggling  back  alone,  others  more 
seriously  hurt  toiling  through  the  mud  with 
the  assistance  of  a  supporting  arm,  others 
lying  waiting  their  turn  to  be  carried  in, 
placed  for  the  time  being  in  such  cover  as 
could  be  found,  the  cover  usually  of  a  deep 
shell-crater  with  soft,  wet  sides,  and  a  deep 
pool  at  the  bottom.  There  were  odd  bunches 
of  men  moving  up,  men  carrying  bombs,  or 
ammunition,  or  supplies  of  some  sort  for  the 


342  FRONT  LINES 

firing  line,  all  ploughing  slowly  and  heavily 
through  the  sticky  mud. 

Drew  lost  all  count  of  time.  He  seemed  to 
have  been  on  that  stretcher,  to  have  been 
swaying  and  swinging,  bumping  down  and 
heaving  up,  for  half  a  life-time — no,  more, 
for  all  his  life,  because  he  had  no  thought  for, 
no  interest  in  anything  that  had  happened  in 
the  world  before  this  stretcher  period,  still 
less  any  interest  in  what  might  happen  after 
it  ended — if  ever  it  did  end.  Several  times 
he  sank  into  stupor  or  semi-unconsciousness, 
through  which  he  was  still  dimly  sensible 
only  of  the  motions  of  the  stretcher,  without 
any  connected  thought  as  to  what  they  meant 
or  how  they  were  caused.  Once  he  awoke 
from  this  state  to  find  himself  laid  on  the 
ground,  one  of  his  bearers  lying  in  a  huddled 
heap,  the  other  stooping  over  him,  lifting 
and  hauling  at  him.  Everything  faded  out 
again,  and  in  the  next  conscious  period  he 
was  moving  on  jerkily  once  more,  this  time 
with  two  men  in  the  lead  with  a  stretcher- 
arm  apiece,  and  one  man  at  the  rear  end.  His 


STRETCHER-BEARERS  343 

first  stretcher-bearer  they  left  there,  flat  and 
still,  sinking  gradually  in  the  soft  ooze. 

Again  everything  faded,  and  this  time  he 
only  recovered  as  he  was  being  lifted  ont  of 
the  stretcher  and  packed  on  a  flat  sideless 
truck  affair  with  four  upright  corner  posts. 
Somewhere  near,  a  battery  of  field  guns  was 
banging  out  a  running  series  of  ear-splitting 
reports — and  it  was  raining  softly  again — ■ 
and  he  was  sitting  instead  of  lying.  He 
groped  painfully  for  understanding  of  it  all. 

''Where  am  I?"  he  asked  faintly. 

''You're  all  right  now,  sir,"  someone  an- 
swered him.  "You'll  have  to  sit  up  a  bit, 
'cos  we've  a  lot  o'  men  an'  not  much  room. 
But  you're  on  the  light  railway,  an'  the 
truck '11  run  you  the  half-mile  to  the  Post  in 
a  matter  o'  minutes." 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Drew.  "How's 
the  show  going?" 

"It's  near  two  o'clock,  sir.  An'  we  hear 
all  the  objectives  is  taken." 

"Near  two,"  said  Drew,  and  as  the  truck 
moved  off,  "Near  two,"  he  kept  repeating 
and  strugghng  to  understand  what  had  hap- 


344  FRONT  LINES 

pened  to  time — had  started  at  six  .  .  .  and 
it  was  "near  two"  .  .  .  ''near  two"  .  .  . 
two  o'clock,  that  was.  He  couldn't  piece  it 
together,  and  he  gave  it  up  at  last  and  de- 
voted himself  to  fitting  words  and  music  to 
the  rhythm  of  the  grinding,  murmuring  truck 
wheels.    Six  o'clock  .  .  .  two  o'clock. 

It  was  little  wonder  he  was  puzzled.  The 
attack  had  started  at  six.  But  it  had  taken 
the  stretcher-bearers  five  hours  to  carry  him 
some  400  yards. 


XXI 

THE  CONQUERORS 

The  public  room  (which  in  England  would 
be  the  Public  Bar)  of  the  ''Cheval  Blanc" 
estaminet,  or  ''Chevvle  Blank"  as  its  pres- 
ent-day customers  know  it,  had  filled  very 
early  in  the  evening.  Those  members  of  the 
Labour  Company  who  packed  the  main  room 
had  just  returned  to  the  blessings  of  compar- 
ative peace  after  a  very  unpleasant  spell  in 
the  line  which  had  culminated  in  a  last  few 
days — and  the  very  last  day  especially — on  a 
particularly  nasty  ' '  job  o '  work. ' '  Making  a 
corduroy  road  of  planks  across  an  apparently 
bottomless  pit  of  mud  in  a  pouring  rain  and 
biting  cold  wind  cannot  be  pleasant  work  at 
any  time.  When  you  stir  in  to  the  dish  of 
trouble  a  succession  of  five-point-nine  high- 
explosive  shells  howling  up  out  of  the  rain 
and  crashing  thunderously  down  on  or  about 

the  taped-out  line  of  road,  it  is  about  as  near 
345 


346  FRONT  LINES 

the  limit  of  unpleasantness  as  a  Labour 
Company  cares  to  come.  The  job  was  rushed, 
five-nines  being  a  more  drastic  driver  than 
the  hardest  hustling  foreman,  but  the  German 
gunners  evidently  had  the  old  road  nicely 
ranged  and  had  correctly  estimated  the  chance 
of  its  being  reconstructed,  with  the  result  that 
their  shells  pounded  down  with  a  horrible 
persistency  which  might  have  stopped  any- 
thing short  of  the  persistency  of  the  Com- 
pany and  the  urgency  of  the  road  being  put 
through.  The  men  at  work  there,  stripped  to 
open-throated  and  bare-armed  shirts,  and  yet 
running  rivers  of  sweat  for  all  their  strip- 
ping, drove  the  work  at  top  speed  on  this  last 
day  in  a  frantic  endeavour  to  complete  before 
dark.  They  knew  nothing  of  the  tactical 
situation,  nothing  of  what  it  might  mean  to 
the  success  or  failure  of  "the  Push"  if  the 
road  were  not  ready  to  carry  the  guns  and 
ammunition  waggons  by  that  nightfall,  knew 
only  that  ''Eoarin*  Bill,  The  Terrible  Turk," 
had  pledged  the  Company  to  finish  that  night, 
and  that  ''Roarin'  Bill"  must  not  be  let  down. 
It  must  be   explained   here   that   *'Roarin* 


THE  CONQUERORS  347 

Bill"  was  the  Captain  in  command  of  the 
Company,  and  although  the  men  perhaps 
hardly  knew  it  themselves,  or  ever  stopped 
to  reason  it  out,  the  simple  and  obvious  rea- 
son for  their  reluctance  to  let  him  down  was 
merely  because  they  knew  that  under  no  cir- 
cumstances on  earth  would  he  let  them,  the 
Company,  down.  His  nick-name  was  a 
private  jest  of  the  Company's,  since  he  had 
the  voice  and  manners  of  a  sucking  dove. 
But  for  all  that  his  orders,  his  bare  word, 
or  even  a  hint  from  him,  went  farther  than 
any  man's,  and  this  in  about  as  rough  and 
tough  a  Company  as  a  Captain  could  well 
have  to  handle.  "Bill"  had  said  they  must 
finish  before  dark,  walked  up  and  down  the 
plank  road  himself  watching  and  directing 
the  work,  and  never  as  much  as  looked — that 
they  knew  of — at  the  watch  on  his  wrist  to 
figure  whether  they'd  make  out  or  not.  "  Th' 
Terrible  Turk  'as  spoke;  wot  'e  'as  said,  'e 
blanky  well  'as  said,"  Sergeant  Buck  re- 
marked once  as  the  Captain  passed  down  the 
road,  "an'  all  the  shells  as  Gerry  ever  pitched 
ain't  goin'  to  alter  it.     Come  on,  get  at  it; 


348  FRONT  LINES 

that  blighter's  a  mile  over."  The  gang,  who 
had  paused  a  moment  in  their  labour  to 
crouch  and  look  up  as  a  shell  roared  over, 
'  *  got  at  it, ' '  slung  the  log  into  place,  and  had 
the  long  spike  nails  that  held  the  transverse 
planks  to  ''the  ribbon"  or  binding  edge  log 
half  hammered  home  before  the  shell  had 
burst  in  a  cataract  of  mud  and  smoke  three 
hundred  yards  beyond.  The  shells  weren't 
always  beyond.  Man  after  man  was  sent 
hobbling,  or  carried  groaning,  back  over  the 
road  he  had  helped  to  build ;  man  after  man, 
until  there  were  six  in  a  row,  was  lifted  to  a 
patch  of  slightly  drier  mud  near  the  roadside 
and  left  there — because  the  road  needed  every 
hand  more  than  did  the  dead  who  were  past 
needing  anything. 

The  job  was  hard  driven  at  the  end,  and 
with  all  the  hard  driving  was  barely  done  to 
time.  About  4  o'clock  an  artillery  subaltern 
rode  over  the  planks  to  where  the  gang 
worked  at  the  road-end,  his  horse  slithering 
and  picking  its  way  fearfully  over  the  muddy 
wet  planks. 

''Can't  we  come  through  yet?"  he  asked, 


THE  CONQUERORS  349 

and  the  Captain  himself  told  him  no,  he  was 
afraid  not,  because  it  would  interrupt  his 
work. 

''But  hang  it  all,"  said  the  Gunner  officer, 
"there's  a  couple  of  miles  of  guns  and  wag- 
gons waiting  back  there  at  the  Control.  If 
they're  not  through  before  dark " 

"They  won't  be,"  said  the  Captain  mildly, 
"not  till  my  time  to  finish,  and  that's  5 
o'clock.  You  needn't  look  at  your  watch," 
he  went  on,  "I  know  it 's  not  five  yet,  because 
I  told  my  men  they  must  finish  by  five — and 
they're  not  finished  yet."  He  said  the  last 
words  very  quietly,  but  very  distinctly,  and 
those  of  the  gang  who  heard  passed  it  round 
the  rest  as  an  excellent  jest  which  had  com- 
pleted the  "  'tillery  bloke's"  discomfiture. 
But  the  Captain's  jest  had  a  double  edge. 
"Start  along  at  five,"  he  had  called  to  the 
retiring  Gunner,  "and  she'll  be  ready  for  you. 
This  Company  puts  its  work  through  on  time, 
always. ' '  And  the  Company  did,  crannning  a 
good  two  hours'  work  into  the  bare  one  to 
make  good  the  boast;  picking  and  spading 
tremendously  at  the  shell-torn  earth  to  level 


350  FRONT  LINES 

a  way  for  the  planks,  filling  in  deep  and  shal- 
low holes,  carrying  or  dragging  or  rolling 
double  burdens  of  logs  and  planks,  flinging 
them  into  place,  spiking  them  together  with 
a  rapid  fusillade  of  click-clanking  hammer- 
blows.  They  ceased  to  take  cover  or  even  to 
stop  and  crouch  from  the  warning  yells  of 
approaching  shells;  they  flung  off  the  gas- 
masks, hooked  at  the  "Alert"  high  on  their 
chests,  to  give  freer  play  to  their  arms ;  they 
wallowed  in  mud  and  slime,  and  cursed  and 
laughed  in  turn  at  it,  and  the  road,  and  the 
job,  and  the  Army,  and  the  war.  But  they 
finished  to  time,  and  actually  at  5  o  'clock  they 
drove  the  last  spikes  while  the  first  teams 
were  scrabbling  over  the  last  dozen  loose 
planks. 

Then  the  Company  wearily  gathered  up  its 
picks  and  shovels  and  dogs  and  sleds,  and  its 
dead,  and  trudged  back  single-file  along  the 
edge  of  the  road  up  which  the  streaming 
traffic  was  already  pouring  to  plunge  off  the 
end  and  plough  its  way  to  its  appointed 
places. 

And  now  in  the  ''Cheval  Blanc*'  as  many 


THE  CONQUERORS  351 

of  the  Company  as  could  find  room  were 
crowded,  sitting  or  standing  contentedly  in  a. 
''fug"  you  could  cut  with  a  spade,  drinking 
very  weak  beer  and  smoking  very  strong 
tobacco,  gossiping  over  the  past  days,  thank- 
ing their  stars  they  were  behind  in  rest  for  a 
spell. 

The  door  opened  and  admitted  a  gust  of 
cold  air;  and  the  cheerful  babel  of  voices, 
shuffling  feet,  and  clinking  glasses,  died  in  a 
silence  that  spread  curiously,  inwards  circle 
by  circle  from  the  door,  as  three  men  came 
in  and  the  Company  realised  them.  The 
Captain  was  one,  and  the  other  two  were — 
amazing  and  unusual  vision  there,  for  all  that 
it  was  so  familiar  in  old  days  at  home — nor- 
mal, decently  dressed  in  tweeds  and  serge, 
cloth-capped,  ordinary  ''civilians,"  obviously 
British,  and  of  working  class. 

The  Captain  halted  and  waved  them  for- 
ward. "These  two  gentlemen,"  he  said  to 
the  Company,  "are — ah — on  a  tour  of  the 
Front.  They  will — ah — introduce  themselves 
to  you.     Corporal,  please  see  them  back  to 


352  FRONT  LINES 

my  Mess  when  they  are  ready  to  come,"  and 
he  went  out. 

The  two  new-comers  were  slightly  ill  at 
ease  and  felt  a  little  out  of  place,  although 
they  tried  hard  to  carry  it  off,  and  nodded  to 
the  nearest  men  and  dropped  a  ''How  goes 
itr'  and  "Hullo,  mates"  here  and  there  as 
they  moved  slowly  through  the  throng  that 
opened  to  admit  them.  Then  one  of  them 
laughed,  still  with  a  slightly  embarrassed  air, 
and  squared  his  shoulders,  and  spoke  up  loud 
enough  for  the  room  to  hear. 

The  room  heard — in  a  disconcerting  silence 
— ^while  he  explained  that  they  were  two  of  a 
"deputation"  of  working  men  brought  out  to 
"see  the  conditions"  at  the  Front,  and  go 
back  and  tell  their  mates  in  the  shops  what 
they  saw. 

"It's  a  pity,"  said  the  Corporal  gently 
when  he  finished,  "you  'adn't  come  to  us  a 
day  earlier.  'Twoulda  bin  some  condition 
you 'da  seen." 

"Wot  d'jer  want  to  see?"  asked  another. 
"This  .  .  .  ain't  front  ezackly."  "Listen!" 
cried  another,  "ain't  that  a  shell  comin'  over? 


THE  CONQUERORS  353 

Take  cover!*'  And  the  room  tittered,  the 
nearest  shell  being  a  good  five  miles  away. 

*'Want  to  see  everything,"  said  the  deputy. 
''We're  going  in  the  trenches  to-morrow,  but 
bein'  here  to-night  we  asked  your  Cap'n 
where  we'd  meet  some  o'  the  boys,  an'  he 
brought  us  here." 

''Wot  trenches — ^wot  part?"  he  was  asked, 
and  when,  innocently  enough,  he  named  a  part 
that  for  years  has  had  the  reputation  of  a 
Quaker  Sunday  School  for  peacefulness,  a 
smile  flickered  round.  The  deputy  saw  the 
smile.  He  felt  uneasy;  things  weren't  going 
right;  there  wasn't  the  eager  welcome,  the 
anxious  questions  after  labour  conditions  and 
so  on  he  had  expected.  So  he  lifted  his  voice 
again  and  talked.  He  was  a  good  talker, 
which  perhaps  was  the  reason  he  was  a  chosen 
deputy.  But  he  didn't  hold  the  room.  Some 
listened,  others  resumed  their  own  chat, 
others  went  on  with  the  business  of  the 
evening,  the  drinking  of  thin  beer.  When  he 
had  finished  the  other  man  spoke,  with  even 
less  success.  There  is  some  excuse  for  this. 
You  cannot  quite  expect  men  who  have  been 


354  FRONT  LINES 

working  like  niggers  under  the  filthiest  pos- 
sible conditions  of  wet  and  mud,  weather  and 
squalor,  have  been  living  and  working,  sleep- 
ing and  eating,  with  sudden  and  violent  death 
at  their  very  elbows,  to  come  straight  out  of 
their  own  inferno  and  be  in  any  way  deeply 
interested  in  abstract  conditions  of  Labour 
at  Home,  or  to  be  greatly  sympathetic  to  the 
tea-and-butter  shortage  troubles  of  men  who 
are  earning  good  money,  working  in  com- 
fortable shops,  and  living  in  their  own  homes. 
The  men  were  much  more  interested  in  af- 
fairs in  France. 

''Wot^s  the  idea  anyway?"  asked  one  man. 
*'Wot's  the  good  o'  this  tour  business?" 

*' We've  come  to  see  the  facks,"  said  a 
deputy.  * '  See  'em  for  ourselves,  and  go  back 
home  to  tell  'em  in  the  shops  what  you  chaps 
is  doing." 

"Wish  they'd  let  some  of  us  swap  places 
wi'  them  in  the  shops,"  was  the  answer.  "I'd 
tell  'em  something,  an'  they'd  learn  a  bit 
too,  doin'  my  job  here." 

"The  workers.  Labour,  wants  to  know," 
went  on  the  deputy,  ignoring  this.    "Some 


THE  CONQUERORS  355 

says  finish  the  war,  and  some  says  get  on 
with  it,  and " 

** Which  are  you  doing?"  came  in  swift 
reply,  and  ' '  How  many  is  on  this  deputation 
job?" 

"There's  three  hundred  a  week  coming 
out,"  said  the  deputy  with  a  touch  of  pride, 
"and " 

i  i  Three  hundred ! ' '  said  a  loud  voice  at  the 
back  of  the  room.  "Blimey,  that's  boat  an' 
train  room  for  three  'undred  a  week  the  less 
o'  us  to  go  on  leaf." 

The  talk  drifted  off  amongst  the  men  them- 
selves again,  but  the  deputation  caught 
snatches  of  it.  "Same  oP  game  as  ol'  Blank 
did  .  .  .  we'll  see  their  names  in  the  papers 
makin'  speeches  when  they're  home  .  .  . 
wearin'  a  tin  'at  an'  a  gas-mask  an'  bein' 
warned  to  keep  their  'eads  down  cos  this  is 
the  front  line — at  Vale-o '-tears.  Oh  Lord!" 
.  .  .  "Square  the  Quarter-bloke  an'  take  the 
shrap  helmet  home  as  a  souvenier  to  hang 

over   the    mantel "      (Here    a   listening 

deputy  blushed  faintly  and  hastily  renounced 
a  long-cherished   secret  idea.)     "Will  this 


356  FRONT  LINES 

trip  entitle  'em  to  a  war  medal  f  "  "  Lord  'elp 
the  one  of  'em  I  meets  wearing  a  medal  that 
they  gets  for  a  week  where  they're  goin',  an' 
that  I've  took  years  to  earn,  where  we  come 
from." 

The  deputy  began  a  long  speech,  worked 
himself  up  into  a  warmth  befitting  the  sub- 
ject, begged  his  hearers  to  ''hold  together," 
not  to  forget  they  were  workers  before  they 
were  soldiers  ("an'  will  be  after — with  a  vote 
apiece,"  struck  in  a  voice),  and  finally  wound 
up  with  a  triumphant  period  about ' '  Union  is 
Strength"  and  "Labor  omnia  vincit — Labour 
Conquers  All,"  which  last  he  repeated  sev- 
eral times  and  with  emphasis. 

Then  the  Corporal  answered  him,  and  after 
the  first  sentence  or  two  the  room  stilled  and 
the  Company  held  its  breath  to  listen,  break- 
ing at  times  into  a  running  murmur  of  ap- 
plause. The  Corporal  spoke  well.  He  had 
the  gift ;  still  better  he  had  the  subject ;  and, 
best  of  all,  he  had  an  audience  that  under- 
stood and  could  not  be  shocked  by  blunt 
truths.  He  told  the  deputation  some  details 
of  the  work  they  had  been  doing  and  the  con- 


THE  CONQUERORS  357 

ditions  under  which  it  was  done;  what  the 
shell-fire  was  like,  and  what  some  of  the  casu- 
alties were  like ;  the  hours  of  their  labour  and 
the  hours  of  their  rest;  how  they  had  made 
their  road  with  the  shells  smashing  in  at 
times  as  fast  as  it  could  be  made;  how  a 
waggon  of  timber,  six-horse  team,  and  driver 
had  been  hit  fair  by  a  five-nine  on  the  road, 
and  how  the  wreckage  (and  nothing  else  that 
they  could  help)  had  been  used  to  begin  fill 
in  the  hole ;  what  their  daily  pay  was  and  what 
their  rations  were,  especially  on  nights  when 
a  shell  wrecked  the  ration-carrying  party; 
and,  finally,  their  total  of  killed  and  wounded 
in  the  one  day,  yesterday. 

' '  Union  is  strength, ' '  he  finished  up.  ' '  But 
does  their  union  at  home  help  our  strength 
here?  What  strength  do  we  get  when  a  strike 
wins  and  you  get  more  pay — at  'ome,  an' 
we're  left  short  o'  the  shells  or  airyplanes 
that  might  save  us  gettin'  shelled  an'  air- 
bombed  in  the  ruddy  trenches.  Labour  Con- 
quers All!  Does  it?  Tell  that  to  a  five-nine 
H.E.  droppin'  on  you.    Ask  Black  Harry  an' 


358  FRONT  LINES 

Joe  Bullish  an'  the  rest  o'  them  we  buried 
yesterday,  if  Labour  Conquers  All." 

The  deputation  had  no  answer,  gave  up  the 
argument,  and  presently  withdrew. 

But  actually,  if  they  had  seen  it,  and  if 
Labour  could  see  it,  they  were  entirely  right, 
and  the  Corporal  himself  unwittingly  had 
proved  it.  Union  is  strength — if  it  be  the 
union  of  the  workshops  and  the  Front; 
Labour  does  conquer  all — if  Labour,  Back 
and  Front,  pull  together.  There  was  no  need 
to  ask  the  question  of  Black  Harry  and  Joe 
Hullish  and  the  rest,  because  they  themselves 
were  the  answer,  lying  in  their  shallow 
graves  that  shook  and  trembled  about  them 
to  the  roar  and  rumble  of  the  traffic,  the  guns 
and  limbers  and  ammunition  waggons  pour- 
ing up  the  road  which  they  had  helped  to 
make.  They  were  dead;  but  the  road  was 
through.  Labour  had  won ;  they  were,  are, 
and — if  their  mates,  Back  and  Front,  so  de- 
cree— will  be  The  Conquerors. 


BOOKS  hy  BOYD  CABLE 


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